Dreams of Fury: Descendants of the Fall Book IV Hodges, Aaron (room on the broom read aloud .TXT) 📖

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