Wrath of the Forgotten: Descendants of the Fall Book II

by Hodges, Aaron

  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.

  When the Tsar spoke, his words boomed across the fields like thunder, his voice magically projected so all could hear.

  “Three long weeks ago, you were offered a choice.” The Tsar’s tone was soft, sorrowful, as though the city’s decision had brought him great pain. “You were told to bow to your one true ruler, or perish. Alas, you chose death.”

  With his final word, an awful roar came from the hills behind the army. Another followed, then another and another, the sounds merging to create a terrible thunder, a chorus of demonic voices that promised only one thing.

  Death.

  Devon looked up in time to see the first beast sweep past. The air crackled as great wings rose, sending wind rushing through the men gathered below. The stench of ash and rotting meat filled the air. Clenching his jaw, he watched on as the great beasts flew towards the city.

  Moments later, the first flames blossomed.

  Even standing far up on the hill, Devon felt the heat of the inferno on his cheeks. He held his breath as the beasts roared again, the sunlight glinting off their blood-red scales.

  In Straken, the silence broke as the first screams carried up to the watching soldiers. From the hilltop, little could be seen of the townsfolk huddled inside the city, but there was no mistaking the terror carried by their cries. As the dragons circled back, the flames rushing from their awful jaws, the screams rose, the first traces of agony joining the chorus.

  Inside the walls, there was no escape from the dragons’ wrath. For weeks the enemy Magickers had held the beasts at bay, driving them back with wind and lightning and light. But with their Magickers defeated, the survivors were defenceless. Trapped within the ancient battlements that had protected them for so many centuries, the city would now become their tomb.

  The Plorsean army watched in silence as the flames engulfed the city. Not a man moved as the five Red Dragons circled. They were the Tsar’s creatures, taken from Dragon Country, bound and chained by his magic. Once, the Gold Dragons had fought alongside man, willing allies against the powers of darkness. They were extinct now, but with the vicious Reds as slaves, the Three Nations now had little need for their more docile golden cousins.

  Overhead, the Red Dragons turned and dove back towards the city. The great jaws opened as one, and the crimson flames rushed down, engulfing the last bastion of refuge within the city. Heat washed over the watching men and women. Sweat dripped from Devon’s brow as he listened to the screams slowly die away.

  When it was finally over, and silence had returned to the city, the Tsar spoke again.

  “It is done.” As before, the sorrow was heavy in his voice. “The war is won. Tomorrow, we return to Plorsea.”

  A cheer went up from the army. Despite himself, Devon joined in, raising a fist skyward in celebration. He had waited so long to hear those words, to know the slaughter was finally over, that he could return to the city of his childhood and hang up his hammer.

  Yet now he felt no joy, no happiness—only relief.

  He was going home.

  But the boy who had left had died long ago.

  Chapter One

  Five years later

  Fire.

  The thought came to Alana as she drifted through the darkness. Rising from the depths, it sent waves rippling through her consciousness. Comprehension came moments later, as the first tendrils of awareness returned. Heat washed over her, urgent and demanding, drawing her back.

  Then the first sounds reached her ears - screams and shouting, the pounding of feet...the crackling of flames!

  Touched by panic, Alana fought the pull of sleep and forced her eyes to open. The sight that greeted her was one of pure chaos.

  She lay on a smooth stone ledge, looking down over a pit some hundred feet deep. Steps lined the walls of the pit, leading down to the dark waters far below.

  A stepwell.

  The name rose from the depths of her subconscious, but her mind was already moving on. All around the stepwell, people were fleeing, clambering up the steep stairs, desperate to escape. Sitting up, her gaze travelled down into the depths of the pit, where flames raged on a platform beside the water. There, a small figure was dancing amidst the flames.

  She stared as the figure staggered to the edge of the platform and hurled himself into the pool. He vanished beneath the surface, but the fire was undeterred. Its orange tongues danced across the dark waters. Somewhere in its depths, the figure continued to thrash, lit by the flame’s glow.

  Finally, the figure forced himself to the surface, his desperate screams echoing up from below. High above, Alana shuddered. The cry had not been one of pain or agony, but of fear.

  Magic.

  As the word formed in her mind, a fresh terror lit in Alana’s chest. It was followed by another name, one that sent tendrils of ice coiling around her spine.

  Stalkers.

  They would be on their way 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 stil
l 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 in the Three Nations. The gates were guarded day and night, as were the great granite stairwells leading down to the docks. While she had scavenged enough coin for the ferry crossing, there would be little left to spare. They would travel the Gods Road as paupers, unable to afford passage further down the river to Lon.

  At any moment during the long journey, they might be discovered. Then everything would be for naught. She and her brother would be dragged back to Ardath in chains, to face the Tsar’s justice. Her life would be forfeit, and her brother…

  She shuddered. No, she would not think of that. Tonight, she would visit the inns and pubs frequented by merchants; perhaps there would be one leaving in the next few days with need of extra workers. Alone, she and her brother were sure to draw the attention of the guards. With other travellers, they would blend in with the crowd. Or so she prayed.

  Either way, Alana’s heart told her they could not wait. They would leave sometime within the week, whether she found a merchant caravan or not. The journey would be long and treacherous, but she had her sabre, even now slapping at her thigh. Together they would make it to Northland, and the safety promised there for rogue Magickers.

  Continue the story in… Oathbreaker

  THE EVOLUTION GENE

  If you’ve enjoyed this book, you might want to check out my dystopian sci-fi series!

  In 2051, the Western Allies States have risen as the new power in North America. But a terrifying plague is sweeping through the nation. Its victims do not die—they change. People call them the Chead, and where they walk, destruction follows.

  Chapter 1

  Chris let out a long sigh as he settled into the worn-out sofa, then cursed as a broken spring stabbed him in the backside. Wriggling sideways to avoid it, he reached for the remote, only to realize it had been left beside the television. Muttering under his breath, he climbed back to his feet, retrieved the remote, flicked on the television, and finally collapsed back into the sofa. This time he was careful to avoid the broken spring.

  He closed his eyes as the blue glow of the television lit the living room. The shriek of commercials followed, but he barely had the energy to be annoyed. He was still at school, but he’d had to take on an afternoon job at the construction site down the road to help his mother make ends meet. Even with the extra income, they were struggling. His only hope was passing the entrance exams for the California State University and winning a scholarship. Otherwise, he would have to beg his supervisor for an apprenticeship.

  “Another attack was reported today from the rural town of Julian.” A reporter’s voice broke through the stream of adverts, announcing the start of the six o’clock news.

  Chris’s ears perked up and he looked quickly at the television. Images flashed across the screen of an old mining town, its dusty dirt roads and rundown buildings looking unchanged since the 1900’s. A row of horse-drawn carriages lined the street, their owners standing alongside them.

  It was a common sight in the rural counties of the Western Allied States. The divide between rural and urban communities had grown in the thirty years since California, Oregon and Washington had declared their independence from the United States. Today, there were few citizens in the countryside able to afford luxuries such as cars and televisions.

  “We’re just receiving word that the police have arrived on the scene,” the reporter continued.

  On the television, a black van with the letters SWAT painted on the side had just pulled up. The rear doors swung open, and a squad of black-garbed riot police leapt out. They gathered around the van and then strode on past the carriages. Dust swirled around them, but they moved without hesitation, the camera following them at a distance.

  The image changed as the police moved around a corner into an empty street. The new camera angle looked down at the police from the rooftop of a nearby building. It followed the SWAT unit as they split into two groups and spread out along the street, rifles at the ready.

  Then the camera panned down the street and refocused on the broken window of a grocery store. The camera zoomed, revealing the nightmare inside the store.

  Chris swallowed as images straight from a horror film flashed across the television. The remnants of the store lay scattered across the linoleum floor, the contents of broken cans and wine bottles staining the ground red. Pieces of humanity were scattered amongst the wreckage, torn arms and shattered legs lying apart from their motionless owners. Chris’s stomach twisted as he looked into the eyes of the dead and saw the terror of their final moments reflected back at him.

  Finally the camera tilted and panned to the sole survivor of the carnage. The man stood amidst the wreckage of the store, blood streaking his face and arms, staining his shirt red. His head was bowed, and the only sign of life was the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders. The camera zoomed in on his face, revealing cold grey eyes. They stared at the ground, blank and lifeless.

  Struggling to contain the meagre contents of his stomach, Chris looked away.

  “The Chead is thought to have awakened at around sixteen hundred hours,” the reporter was saying now, drawing Chris ba
ck to the screen. “Special forces have cleared the immediate area and are now preparing to engage with the creature.”

  “Two hours.” Chris jumped up as a woman’s voice came from behind him.

  He spun on his heel, then relaxed as his mother walked in from the kitchen. “I thought you had a night class!” he gasped.

  His mother shook her head, a slight smile touching her face. “We finished early.” She shrugged, then waved at the television. “They’ve been standing around for two hours. Watching that thing. Some of those people were still alive when it all started. They might have been saved. Would have, if they’d been somebody important.”

  Chris pulled himself off the couch and embraced his mother. He kissed her cheek and she returned the gesture, before they both turned to watch the SWAT team approach the grocery store. The men in black moved with military precision, jogging down the dirt road, sticking close to the buildings. If the Chead came out of its trance, no one wanted to be caught in the open. While the creatures looked human, they possessed a terrifying speed, and had the strength to tear full-grown men limb from limb.

  As the scene inside the grocery store demonstrated.

  Absently, Chris clutched his mother’s arm tighter. The Chead were a curse throughout the Western Allied States, or WAS as many called them, a dark shadow left over from the days of the American War. The first whispers of the creatures had started in 2030, not long after the fall of the United States. They had been dismissed then as a rumor, the new country eager to move on from the decade-long conflict. Attacks had been blamed on resistance fighters in rural communities, who had never fully supported the severance from the United States.

  In response, the government had imposed curfews in the affected counties, and sent in the military to quell the unrest. But their measures had done nothing to stem the attacks, and eventually, accounts by survivors had filtered through to the media. Claims surfaced that it was not soldiers behind the butchery, but members of the community. The perpetrators were always different, but the story was the same. One day the assailants were ordinary neighbors or colleagues – the next, monsters capable of tearing their loved ones to pieces.