Wrath of the Forgotten: Descendants of the Fall Book II Hodges, Aaron (simple e reader TXT) 📖

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.

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