There was a pause around the circle, but as Maya and her partner turned to leave, several broke ranks from the others and followed. Lukys watched them go, realising belatedly that he recognised others amongst their ranks. Their faces were etched into his memory, terrible and twisted, maddened as they sought to slaughter him. These were the creatures they had unearthed in the hidden chambers so many months before, the ones the Archivist had uncovered, and Cara had slain.
Slowly the memory faded and Lukys found himself standing again in the debating chamber. Beside him, Sophia slumped against him, her eyes wide, entire being trembling. He held her close, feeling the same shock, though it was impossible now to know whether it was his own, or hers. The sight of Maya in that ring of Old Ones, of her disdain as she regarded those who would not follow…
“She will kill them all,” Sophia whispered to the room.
The hairs on Lukys’s neck stood on end at her words. Sophia was right. Maya loathed humanity. She cared nothing for the creatures that had become the Tangata, who had mixed their blood with her enemy. They were beneath her, unworthy. All that mattered to this creature was the survival of her own people, in all their pure glory.
The survival of the Old Ones, the Chead.
And Lukys knew now what she wanted.
A true mate, another of her kind that had lain sleeping through the centuries, one that might restore her race to its former glory.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before the words could leave his lips, a boom came from the entrance to the chamber. Lukys stumbled, still struggling to return his mind to the present, to the grand chamber in which they stood as the queen’s former advisor stumbled inside. Eyes wide, Zayaan’s gaze swept the room until it settled finally on Lukys and Sophia.
“Your Majesties!” the elderly man cried. “Please, you must come quickly. The Calafe refugees, there’s been an uprising. They’re marching on the citadel!”
21
The Fugitive
Erika struggled to make headway as the crowd pressed against her, the dense bodies threatening to swallow her up. Refugees from all across southern Flumeer had converged on Mildeth, fleeing before the retreating army and the Tangata surging across the kingdom. The chaos had made it easy to enter the city unnoticed by Amina’s guards, but it complicated her plans. The unwanted Calafe, after more than a year spent camped without the walls, had finally been allowed into the city. If she could not find them, she had already failed.
Alongside her, Cara struggled with the crowd even more than Erika. While she had healed enough to fly on their journey, she wore a jacket they had taken from the farmhouse to cover her wings. Rumours of the winged creatures that harried the queen’s army had raced ahead of the battle, and now instead of looking upon the Anahera in awe, the Flumeerens spoke of them in the same breath as the monstrous Tangata.
But it was the crowd itself that was causing Cara problems. She had coped fine in Fogmore, but that had been a backwater village compared to the population of Mildeth. Thousands surged around them, more people than the young Anahera had ever seen before, and Erika could see the anxiety in her friend’s eyes, could feel it in the strength of Cara’s grip around her hand. She was pretty sure that grip was the only thing keeping the Goddess from fleeing into the sky.
Thankfully, Cara kept her feet on the ground, at least for now. They were chasing a rumour that the Calafe refugees had taken up residence in a plaza not far from the citadel itself. She wondered what Amina would think of that, should the woman survive long enough to return. Erika still prayed the Tangata would strike the queen down, but given her Anaheran strength and the human magic she wielded, the odds seemed stacked in Amina’s favour.
A princess could dream though.
Finally the crowd began to shift. They went with the flow rather than trying to force themselves in a particular direction. All roads in Mildeth lead towards the citadel—it was only once you reached the mountain on which the citadel perched that the way would be barred. Certainly, the nobles Amina had left to oversee the city would keep themselves aloof from the refugees flooding through their gates.
Still, the crowd thinned as they approached the citadel, as the refugees were taken in by those households and taverns willing to help, or more often found a spot on the sidewalks, plazas or parks—wherever they could find space not already occupied by another lost soul. Compared to the tranquil city she had last left just months before, Erika could hardly believe the raucous difference now.
But then, the Tangata were coming.
They found the plaza they wanted crowded like all the others, but it was difficult to tell immediately whether the rumours had been true, that the Calafe were the ones who occupied this space. Certainly, the plaza seemed better organised than others, with makeshift tents setup in long lines, creating avenues through which foot traffic could pass.
Still clutching Cara’s hand, Erika led them into the square. It wasn’t long before she heard the rough southern accent of the Calafe amongst those camped there. Her heart quickened at the sound, and she found herself studying the faces of the men and women they passed, noting their differences from the average Flumeeren. While the locals generally preferred spears and swords, these refugees carried axes, clubs and maces. They were older too, the weapons she glimpsed, their handles worn with use, though Erika saw not a speck of rust upon the blades.
The final confirmation came when she noticed the women carried weapons too. The warrior queen of Flumeer was an exception to norm in Flumeer, where most women went unarmed.
Which meant Erika had found the Calafe, her people.
As though summoned by the thought, a rough hand grabbed Erika by the wrist, jarring her to a halt and spinning her in the direction of her assailant. Heart lurching, Erika raised her fist, preparing to summon her magic, but the man spoke before she could summon its power.
“Who are you?” he growled, spittle from his swollen lips flying between them, such that Erika took a quick step back. The man released her, but advanced after her retreat. “This is Calafe territory,” he continued, “Outsiders are not welcome.”
Erika struggled to contain her surprise—she hadn’t expected her presence to be noted so quickly, let alone confronted. Now she found herself staring up at the gruff stranger, dwarfed by his size, by the bulk of his massive barrel chest. The hilt of a greatsword rose from between his shoulders and he wore an old chainmail vest, its links polished so they shone. Such was his size, it was a long moment before Erika noticed his missing arm, the empty sleeve where his left hand should have been.
Her heart lurched at the sight and she remembered Romaine, how he had lost his arm protecting her in the caverns. But the man had not been alone in his loss—amongst the Calafe, many had suffered similar injuries in the decade long war against the Tangata. Though…most had not continued the fight as Romaine had.
Remembering his courage that day in the mountains, so long ago now, when Romaine had fallen, Erika drew herself up. “I am no outsider,” she snarled at her accoster. “Who are you to question me?”
The man raised a bushy eyebrow. “I am Darien of the Calafe,” he rumbled. “And I know all of my people in Mildeth, those who survived the death of our kingdom. And I don’t know you.”
“And yet I am Calafe.”
“Did you come from the south then?” Darien asked, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “Perhaps you’ve lived amongst the Tangata all this time, sharing their beds, breaking your fast with them.” He snorted and waved a hand. “Begone, women, look for shelter elsewhere.”
Movement came from behind Darien as two others stepped from the crowd with clubs in hand. One sported a missing eye, the other a nasty scar that started at his exposed shoulder and disappeared beneath his shirt. Erika shivered again at the evidence of their lost war. Most of the Calafe had refused to flee the Tangata. Only those too injured to fight, or with families to protect, had fled willingly. Even Romaine had only survived because of a head knock that had inc
apacitated him during the final battle.
Alongside her, Cara shifted at the sight of the men and Erika sensed her friend’s tension. Quickly she stepped between them. She didn’t want to see what would happen if the people of this city witnessed the Goddess in all her glory. After the rumours that had spread ahead of the fleeing army, it was unlikely to be friendly…
“Ay, I came from the frontier,” she said softly, allowing the accent she had worked so hard to squash the past decade to slip back into her words. She kept her eyes locked with Darien. It was obvious he enjoyed some degree of status amongst the refugees. “I stood with Romaine of Calafe when he marched south against the Tangata,” she hesitated then, knowing she carried news the world had not yet heard. “And I was at his side when he died.”
“Romaine is dead?” the man asked, shock showing in his eyes. He lowered his hand, the tension going from his body. “It cannot be true.”
Cara stirred at his words. “It is,” she said softly. “He died saving me, protecting me from a terrible man.”
For the first time, Darien took note of Cara. His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down and Erika’s heart clenched, fearing Cara would be recognised as the Goddess that had revealed herself on the Illmoor. This man could not have been there, but rumours would have spread…
“It is said Romaine journeyed into the mountains to protect a…woman with fiery hair and eyes of amber,” he said softly, and Erika realised this man knew the truth. But he only inclined his head to Cara. “I am glad to hear his passing was not in vain. Long did our champion seek the release of death.”
The Goddess swallowed at his words, her eyes shining in the afternoon sun. Erika felt a sting in her own eyes, but she clenched her teeth and forced the grief aside. How much easier this would have been, if Romaine had lived to stand at her side. They could have worked together to reunite their fallen kingdom…
…but there was no use wishing to change the past. There was only the present now, only her. Drawing herself up, Erika nodded to the Calafe.
“He died fighting for his kingdom,” she added.
A frown touched the man’s face, and he looked at her, perturbed. “Who are you, girl?”
“I am no girl,” Erika said, inserting every inch of authority she possessed into her voice. These men must not view her as a child, and so she drew about her the practiced air of the Flumeeren court, the skills she had acquired in her years training beneath the queen. “My name is Erika, daughter to King Micah, and the rightful Queen of the Calafe.”
The man stared at her, eyes wide, brows lifted into his ragged mop of black hair. Then abruptly, he threw back his head and let out a booming laugh. Erika jumped at the sound, flinching back from him, before a scowl crossed her face. Instinctively, she clenched her fist.
The sound of Darien’s laughter drew the attention of the nearby crowd, and as his laughter faded, Erika and Cara found themselves surrounded now by onlookers. Embarrassment rose within Erika as she felt the weight of their gaze and her cheeks grew warm.
But they fell silent as the heat grew in her hand, their eyes drawn to the light seeping from her fingers. Swallowing her doubt, Erika she raised her fist, the gauntlet aglow, its magic bursting out to bathe the faces of the onlookers. Even Darien’s eyes widened at the sight and unconsciously he took a step back.
“What sorcery is this?” he whispered.
Erika ignored him. Instead, she scanned her surroundings, settling finally on an appropriate place to stand. Crossing to a nearby fountain, she climbed up onto the rim. The water within had long since dried up, probably one of the first luxuries to be halted with the approaching war. There was a statue within of a man upon a horse, probably queen Amina’s father, Erika guessed, though she could not have said for certain.
Ignoring the now silent crowd, Erika crossed the barren fountain and pulled herself up onto the statue, climbing higher, leaving behind those below, until she stood upon the back of the horse and looked out across the plaza.
A thousand faces stared back at her, mouths wide, eyes fixed upon the glowing gauntlet. Erika grimaced as she look at them, at their pain, their poverty, the cruelty the world had dealt them. Once, she had condemned these people for their misfortune, but now she saw more. A mother who wore a sword upon her belt as she supervised a group of children. Warriors like Darien and his friends amidst the crowd, eyes alert for troublemakers. The orderly placement of the tents, though they had only been in this place a few days.
The Calafe might have lost their home, but they had not lost their pride.
“Hear me, people of Calafe,” Erika called, speaking in a soft voice, though such was the silence now, her words did not fail to reach the ears of a single watcher. “My name is Erika. You do not know me, but my father was Micah, our fallen king. My mother and I were driven from New Nihelm upon his death. Perhaps you know the story,” she hesitated at that, memories flickering into her mind, of a life lost, of suffering and hardship, of her heartbroken mother doing her best to raise an ungrateful child. Then she exhaled, and let go of that pain. “In truth, I have lived much of my life hating the Calafe for what was done to me.” She drew in a breath. “But that time has passed. I have learned much these last weeks, the truth about my father, about our kingdom.”
Erika paused, eyeing the crowd, knowing that what she said next would change everything. Revealing the truth would set the Calafe against Queen Amina, and all who stood with her. But there was no choice. However she justified her treachery, the woman must pay for the crimes she had committed against the Calafe.
“It is time I shared that truth. It was not the Tangata who killed my father, our king, but an assassin. Sent by Queen Amina, he slew Micah at the height of the southern campaign, when our forces were committed to battle, so that the Calafe would collapse, leaving our lands unprotected. All so Queen Amina could play the hero, so the other kingdoms would turn to her in fear.”
A rumble rose from the crowd and she sensed their disbelief, their anger. She had felt that same doubt herself. How could anyone be so selfish, so cold-hearted, to commit such an atrocity against their fellow man? And yet her words were truth. She caught sight of the man that had accosted her as he pushed his way to the edge of the fountain.
“Is it true?” Darien called up to her, his face twisted, anger shining from his eyes. Cara hovered at his side, looking from Erika to the Calafe man.
Erika clenched her fist and light burst from the gauntlet. “Every word I have spoken is truth,” she proclaimed. “I served beneath the woman for years, trusted her, loved her. But I cannot allow her treachery to stand. No longer.”
Darien stared at her for a long moment. “And what would you do about it, Erika of the Calafe?” Came the question.
Erika clenched her jaw. “I would lead my people against the one who betrayed us.”
Darien nodded, then dropped to one knee. “Then I will follow you, my queen.”
Erika eyes widened at the man’s abrupt change of heart. But his gesture was already spreading around the plaza, whispers passing through the crowd as they looked upon Darien. In that moment, Erika realised she’d been correct in her assessment, that Darien was someone important amongst the Calafe.
Standing atop the statue, Erika watched in disbelief as one by one, the Calafe gathered below fell to their knees and pledged their loyalty. In that moment, looking out over her people, Erika’s worries evaporated, and she felt a warmth within, a quiet confidence. If she could do this, then nothing was beyond her. Not with her people united behind her.
Her eyes flickered towards the mountain that rose from the centre of the city, the walls of the citadel twisting up to enclose it. Amina was still marching north, the bulk of her forces with her. Most of the Mildeth’s remaining defences would be committed to the city walls, leaving the citadel relatively unprotected. But if the queen was allowed to retake the city, that would change.
There was no time to hesitate.
“People of Calafe,
” she called, lifting her arm to point the way. “Let us take our vengeance upon the home of our enemy!”
22
The Sovereign
Lukys stumbled to a halt as he turned corner and was greeted by the roar of raised voices. Sophia stopped beside him, even as Nguyen and their guards fanned out around them. For a second, all Lukys could do was stare at the Calafe as they advanced up the street. Weapons glistened in their hands and a burning red aura rolled out ahead of the crowd, thrumming with their rage.
Instinctively, he reached out with his mind and felt Sophia moving with him, seeking to cool the heat of their emotion, to restore calm to the approaching mob. For once though, they resisted, and Lukys sensed a flickering of images from their minds, of a man with wild black hair cut down, of burning villages and the fall of New Nihelm, and…
…he started as a woman’s face emerged from the images, one he knew, that of the Queen’s Archivist he had known once, though it seemed a lifetime since he’d ridden south with Erika…
“Lukys!”
His head jerked up as someone shouted his name over the roaring of the crowd. His heart lurched and his mouth fell open as a figure leapt into the air, wings snapping open, beating down, sending their owner hurtling upwards. Screams sounded from the crowd as the Anahera soared higher, and curses came from his guards as they raised spears and shields to protect the Sovereigns and the king.
Lukys hardly noticed their actions. His eyes were fixed on the winged woman, on the figure spiralling down towards him, taking in the brilliant auburn wings and copper hair, the ringing voice calling his name, the joy upon the face of the Anahera.
Only when he heard the clacking of crossbows did he take note of his guards.
“Stop!” he shouted desperately, using his inner Voice too. The crossbow wrenches fell silent as Travis and the others looked at Lukys, eyes wide, and in the air, even the Anahera seemed to falter at the power of his Command.
Dreams of Fury: Descendants of the Fall Book IV Page 14