A tremor raised the hackles on his neck as he recalled the swirling snow, the faces of those who had succumbed, of men and women, of the children who had fallen in the snowdrifts, never to rise again. The journey had taken a terrible toll on the Tangata, on his people, and more than once he had found himself doubting his partner—though he had helped raise her to Matriarch.
Now though, after their glorious victory in the mountains, Adonis joyed in her power, in the fall of the Anahera, of the creatures that humanity had named Gods. The cost had been terrible, but in the end, to watch the Anahera kneel at their feet, cowed by mere Tangata…it had been a glorious sight.
Smiling, Adonis looked up at the creatures, soaring on their cursed wings. They served the Tangata now, keeping watch for the enemy. Faced with Maya’s power, the creatures had made their choice, had bowed to the Old One, surrendered their liberty to preserve their future.
Adonis turned as the rattling of chains carried above the soft patter of falling snow. The elation of their victory left him as he saw the group of prisoners approaching, watched closely by their Tangatan guard.
The children of the Anahera—fledgelings as the creatures called them—marched with heads down, each chained to the next in line by collars of steel fastened about their necks. They walked in blessed silence, heads bowed and stumbling in the deep snow, cowed by the power of their captors, by the thrum of Maya’s Voice, always present now, though she walked at the head of their column.
Adonis clenched his fists as he watched the fledgelings trudge past. They might have left them imprisoned and under guard in the Anaheran city, but Maya wanted to keep them close, needed them to ensure the obedience of her new slaves. Not even her Voice could keep so many of the adult Anahera in check without the threat against their youth to cow them.
His heart twitched as one of the fledgelings tripped and fell into a snowdrift. The icy stuff had ceased to fall, but the ground was thick with the last of winter’s storms, making passage difficult for the young. And their wings, still too young for flight, only seemed to hinder them further on the ground.
Adonis couldn’t help but wonder at a species whose youth were so defenceless. The moment he had caught one within his superhuman grip, the fledgeling’s life had hung in his hands. No wonder the rest had surrendered so easily.
Most of the fledgelings barely stood taller than Adonis’s waist, and with the chains binding them together, the journey through the mountains had been difficult. It would only get worse. Now they had reached the lowlands, the pace would increase. And if their parents resisted Maya orders…
At least the Tangata were strong. From a young age, they were able to fend for themselves. And the Old Ones…legend whispered of their offspring, of new-borns able to walk within days, fight by their first year. Adonis felt a thrill of excitement at that thought and looked around for Maya. Her belly had grown large in the weeks they’d spent in the mountains, and he wondered whether it was right that they continue with this mad rush, that they hurl their strength upon the defences of humanity now, rather than wait. But Maya had been insistent.
A shout from the fledgelings drew his attention back to the captives. Another at the rear had fallen, his chain pulling short so that the others stumbled. Shouts came from their Tangatan guards, then one of his brethren strode forward. He held a rope in one hand and with a flick of his wrist, he sent it hissing at the fledgeling’s back. A scream punctuate its impact as the youth’s wings thrashed against the snow, becoming entangled in the chains. The Tangata raised the rope again, but a shout from the back of the line gave him pause.
“Hey!”
Adonis flinched at the coarseness of the human language—not so much the words themselves, but the manner in which they communicated. The creatures spoke aloud, so that all the world could hear their thoughts. Indeed, he had come to suspect they enjoyed the fact that their speech made it all but impossible to be ignored. Certainly, this individual did not want for silence.
“Bastard, why don’t you pick on someone your own size!”
Stifling a growl, Adonis marched to the rear of the line where the human was sitting up in her stretcher, waving a fist at the Tangata with the rope-whip. The human had been injured in the battle for the Anaheran city, twisting her leg in a terrible fall. For now, Maya had permitted her to live, though if she did not cooperate when they reached the human lands, her protection would not last.
Swathed in furs, only the human’s golden complexion and long black hair was visible, but that was more than enough to show her displeasure. The two Anahera that had been assigned to carry her stretcher struggled to keep from tipping their burden into the snow at her erratic movements.
Adonis shook his head as he approached. They were such vulgar things, these humans. This one called herself Maisie, but Adonis rarely bothered to recall their names. He couldn’t understand how so many of his brethren had taken them as assignments. Despite the old Matriarch’s urgings, he could have never stomached the thought of bonding with one, let alone procreating—though until recently that had been the only way of preserving the Tangatan lineage.
Just the thought made Adonis’s stomach churn. Even the Anahera would be preferable, cowardly as they had proven. At least they were powerful, elegant, maybe worthy of the Tangata. That had been his hope once, a union between their species, one that might save the Tangata from extinction.
Then he had discovered Maya, and the future of his people had changed forever.
Approaching the stretcher, Adonis looked to the Anaheran woman who was helping to carry the human.
Translate for me, slave, he said, then turned to glare at the human.
“You,” the human spoke before Adonis could relay his admonishments through the Anaheran woman. “I know you…you’re the first one, the one the Old One used to take the fledgeling.”
Adonis scowled. “I am Adonis, partner to the Matriarch of the Tangata”, he hissed, and the Anaheran woman relayed his words. “And you will speak only when commanded, human.”
To his surprise, the human only rolled her eyes, a gesture he’d come to learn was one of disrespect. A growl rumbled from his chest and he took a step towards the creature.
“I hope you’re happy,” the human said, ignoring his warning and lying back in her stretcher. She gestured to her bearers. “I can’t say I was the biggest fan of the Anahera, but to enslave an entire species...” She shook her head. “That’s almost human.”
“Quiet, prisoner,” Adonis snapped, irritated despite himself. How dare this creature compare his people to their kind? “Or you will soon outlive your usefulness.”
“Ha!” Maisie snorted. “You and I both know I’d already be as dead as poor Farhan and his son if that was the case. Your master clearly needs me for something.”
Maya is not my master, Adonis snapped back.
The human only stared at him, as though she had not caught the meaning of his words. It was a moment before Adonis realized the Anaheran woman had not relayed his words. Snarling, he swung on the creature.
Slave, why have you not translated?
The Anahera blinked, shaking her head as though coming out of some trance. “I…I…” she stuttered, seemingly unable to put together the words. Her face had grown paled, and he noticed now that her eyes were red, as though she had not slept in a long while. “I am sorry, Tangata, the human…she mentioned my partner…and my son.”
Her face twitched at the words—then to Adonis’s horror, tears spilt down the woman’s face. Images flickered in his mind, of Farhan’s death by Maya’s hand, crushed by her power. Then the youth in his grief, bowed over the fallen Anahera’s body. The son. Maya had sent him to kill his sister, the young Anahera that had escaped, but he had never returned. Adonis had no doubt that meant the son was as dead as the father. Such was the power of Maya’s Voice, the boy would not have stopped until the sister was slain, or he himself was dead.
“I am sorry,” the Anaheran woman said softly, struggli
ng to straighten, to contain herself. “I…it is just…I do not know what became of Hugo. He so wanted to please his father…”
Your son is dead, Adonis said harshly. False hope would not help the woman now, as he knew was the human way. The woman’s son was dead—no amount of lying would change that truth. Likely his sister killed him. I suppose you can be pleased by that at least: your daughter lives.
The tears had returned to the Anaheran woman’s face, but she froze at his last words. Then she was shaking her head, fists clenched, her whole body trembling. “Cara…was not my daughter,” she mumbled. “She was…the daughter of Farhan’s first partner. She would not have…could not have…no, she was headstrong, but she would not have killed one of us, not Hugo, not her own brother—”
The Anahera broke off as Adonis struck her hard across the face, sending her crashing to the snow. Anger raged within him as he looked down at the creature’s shock. She would be far stronger than him, faster, more powerful, but the steel collar about her throat revealed the truth of her nature. She had bowed with the rest of her kind and now her strength meant nothing. They were his, all their kind. Their lives belonged to the Tangata. How dare she waste his time with her tears.
Yet, as he looked into her eyes and saw the grief there, Adonis felt the harsh words wither within him. Instead, he only shook his head and glanced at the human.
Pick up your burden, slave, he said, adding venom to his words despite his sudden regret. Perhaps hard labour will help you to forget the loss of your foolish child.
The human watched him as the Anaheran woman rose from the snow, her simple tunic now damp from melting ice. She had not heard his words, could not have understood half the conversation, but knowledge still shone from Maisie’s eyes as she watched him. A shiver passed through Adonis at that look, and he couldn’t help but wonder at Maya’s wisdom, keeping one of her kind alive. They were intelligent, scheming creatures. So long as this human lived, she was a danger to them all.
But he could not go against the wishes of his Matriarch. So instead he turned back to the Anaheran woman as she picked up her end of the stretcher. The second Anahera had remained silent throughout the exchange, and he couldn’t help but think he’d picked the wrong translator, being drawn into the creature’s loss. Even so…
You had best get used to the pain, Anahera, he said as she lifted the stretcher. This time his voice lacked anger, and his tone was soft, without antagonism. He spoke only truth. I fear the suffering of your people has only just begun.
2
The Prisoner
Erika’s world was pain. Agony, drilling into her skull, searing her flesh, twisting her very bones. Darkness engulfed her, the pitch-black offering no escape, no fleeting distraction from her suffering. Even when the convulsions began to subside, and her mind began to return, she would hear the footsteps on the stairs, the soft creaking of boards beneath booted feet, the rasping of the queen’s laughter.
And the sound would begin again. That terrible, soul-rending shriek that set her whole being aflame. No matter that Erika pressed her hands to her ears, that she screamed to drown it out—the sound found her anyway. Through cloth and flesh and bone, even in the depths of unconsciousness, it sought her out. There was no escaping the fiery lashes of the queen’s power, no relief. Time fled in that dark place and reality with it, until there was nothing for Erika but the ebb and flow of her pain.
The pain—and the whispers of the queen.
“Give up, Erika, surrender, and be free.”
Lost amidst the agony, Erika began to wonder why she still resisted. The insidious words crept their way into her soul, murmuring their promises of freedom. She wept at the thought of relief, of a world without the shrieking, without the agony.
But something within Erika would not allow it, a tiny fraction of her consciousness, one that remembered the queen’s lies, that recalled the woman’s treachery. And she knew the promises were ash, that the only relief the queen offered was the cold embrace of death.
So instead, all Erika offered her enemy were her screams.
Queen Amina didn’t seem to mind. Between flashes of red and white, in moments of brief clarity, Erika glimpsed the woman’s face, the cruel grin twisting her lips. The queen didn’t care that Erika resisted, only that she had her revenge. Then the madness would rise once more, an ocean of agony sweeping Erika away on dreams of suffering.
She could not have picked the moment when the end finally came, when the tide of her pain receded—and did not return. Consciousness came to Erika slowly, her soul creeping back to the broken husk of her body, as though fearing some trap, a trick by the queen to catch her unawares.
But when Erika finally cracked open her eyes, she found herself alone in the hull of the ship. Pain still rippled through her body when she tried to sit up, aftershocks of the queen’s magic, but for the first time since being taken captive, the raw agony had vanished.
Drawing in a breath of stale air, she sought to pull the scattered fragments of her thoughts together. Memories collided in her mind as she recalled her struggle to convince the Anahera to fight, to resist the Tangatan attack. Never could she have imagined that the noble creatures, proclaimed as Gods over humanity, could have submitted so readily.
In the end, only Farhan had resisted. Cold, uncaring, Farhan. But he had proven his love for his daughter, twisted and controlling as it was. He may have saved Cara from the Old One, but only after coming so close to condemning her, to robbing the Goddess of the wings that gave her life, freedom.
Yet, what did it matter now? Farhan was dead…as was his son Hugo, who had perished by Cara’s hands, at the hands of his own sister. A shudder shook Erika as she recalled that desperate struggle. Through the agony of her broken arm and Cara’s shattered wing, they had fought poor Hugo, Cara’s half-brother, to the death. Driven mad by the Old One, he had fought as though possessed, screaming that he was helping Cara—even as he slammed her skull against the stones.
Now he was dead, drowned in the mountain stream, his body carried away by the currents. And Erika and Cara had found themselves a fresh prison, a new tormentor in the form of the Flumeeren Queen. How Amina had come to take the lands of the Gemaho, Erika could not comprehend, but it hardly seemed to matter now. They had fallen into her clutches, been conquered by her magic. There would be no escape now.
Erika still wasn’t sure why she was even alive. The queen wanted the magic gauntlet Erika wore, but why not prise it from her corpse? Why go through the hassle of torture, of the demands for Erika to remove it? Unless…the magic could not be taken against her will. Erika hadn’t considered that possibility, but now she wondered…
The squeal of hinges drew Erika’s attention to the boards above her head and she flinched as a ray of light swept the gloom beneath the deck, illuminating stairs leading up to a trap door. Feet descended, followed by the queen herself.
Erika’s heart raced as she watched the woman’s approach, but there was nowhere to hide in the hold. She shrank into a corner, as though if only she could make herself small enough, she might avoid the queen’s wrath. But there was little hope of that, and balling her fist, she tried desperately to reach for the power of her gauntlet.
Pain seared through her wrist as the broken bones grated together, still mending from the injury she had taken in the mountains. Despite the pain, a brief flickering of light appeared in the links of her gauntlet, but it quickly died, as Erika’s energies flagged. She couldn’t remember the last meal she’d taken—even before their capture, she and Cara had barely scavenged enough from the land to stave off starvation. Without fresh strength to feed the gauntlet, its power was useless to her.
A smile crossed the queen’s thin lips as she watched Erika’s pathetic attempt at resistance. Then she raised her own gauntleted hand and squeezed it into a fist. Light burst from the metallic links, so bright it was nearly blinding. Erika flinched from the display of power, her own mind withering at the pain it promised, the
agony that would follow. A moan drew from the depths of her throat as half-mad, she turned and clawed at the boards of the ship.
Erika herself had once used that same power to dominate friends and enemies alike—to strike down Cara and the Tangata, even Farhan, the leader of the Anahera. Now she found herself on the receiving end…she could barely hold onto her own sanity.
“So my Archivist awakes,” the queen murmured, raising her burning fist.
The woman was dressed for war, with heavy chainmail draped across her lithe frame, a helm with a golden circlet set in the brow carried beneath her free hand. A sword hung from her side, though with the power of the ancient gauntlet, this woman had no need for such a primitive weapon.
Erika shrank farther into her corner at the woman’s voice, tears springing to her eyes. She could already feel the onset of the pain, the return of the madness. Those Erika had tortured with her own gauntlet had perished quickly, their insides torn apart by her magic. But Queen Amina had obviously spent time refining her power, learned such control that she could torture Erika for hours without her victim succumbing to the silent embrace of death.
A sob tore from Erika’s throat as she shook her head, scrunching her eyes closed. Somehow, now she had regained her sanity, had escaped the pain for even a few hours, the thought of its return…
Laughter rasped in her ears and a brilliant light seared at Erika’s eyelids, as though the queen were gathering even more power. But then the light faded and footsteps approached. Another tremor shook Erika as she clenched her fists, struggling to keep from screaming.
“Such bravery,” the queen’s voice whispered from close by.
Cracking open her eyes, Erika found the queen crouched alongside her. The woman’s emerald eyes seemed to pierce Erika to the soul. There was a sharpness about the queen’s face that spoke of power, of her unyielding will. This was a woman who had defied the Tangata, who had traded and manipulated and battled her way across the kingdoms of humanity, until all lay conquered at her feet.
Dreams of Fury: Descendants of the Fall Book IV Page 2
