Wrath of the Forgotten Read online

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Maisie added, reclining into one of the sofas herself. “Nguyen tends not to care about such things.”

  “Is he here, you think?” Erika asked. She cast an eye over the sofas, before muttering a curse and falling into the nearest one. She was too exhausted to remain on her feet for a second longer.

  “I sent a bird from Fogmore before we left,” the spy replied. “I doubt he’ll have waited in Solaris for what I promised him.”

  Erika narrowed her eyes at the woman’s words. What had Maisie promised the king? Did the spy intend to betray her and claim Erika’s offerings as her own? She clenched her fist and felt the pulsing of the gauntlet’s magic. If Maisie did betray her, she would find her lifespan measured in minutes rather than years…

  Angrily, Erika shook her head, banishing the thought. Despite her chosen discipline, Maisie had been a surprisingly pleasant travelling companion—at least compared to Cara’s open animosity. They had developed a system to sleep and keep watch, and the woman had even shown Erika a little about what it took to navigate the swirling currents of the Illmoor. Not enough that she could sail unsupervised, but at least it had taken Erika’s mind off the constant threat of the hunters.

  Still though, if the king was in the fortress, where was he? Surely he’d been summoned as soon as the guards recognised Maisie? A frown wrinkling her forehead, Erika glanced at the door, impatient—

  She flinched as her eyes fell upon a man standing in the doorway. Somehow, he’d opened the door and entered without them noticing. No, without Erika noticing—there was a knowing grin on Maisie’s face as she watched Erika’s reaction, and she caught a snort from Cara. Chuckling, the man stepped into the room, allowing the door to close behind him.

  “Greetings,” he said, spreading his arms. “Maisie, I have had searchers out watching for you. The river is crawling with Flumeer. I was beginning to fear they might exceed even your talent for concealment.”

  A smile crossed the spy’s lips as she rose and gave a short bow. “Gladly, that day has not yet come, Nguyen.”

  Erika swallowed as she looked from the spy to the newcomer. Nguyen, King of Gemaho. Though he wore no crown or other indication of his position, there was a presence to the man, a power in the sea-green eyes that watched her from across the room. Age had added white streaks to the short-cropped brown hair and his clothes were plain, if expertly tailored. A short sword hung from his belt and he wore leather riding gloves. Had their arrival interrupted other plans the king might have had for the morning?

  Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as the king turned his gaze on her, and she stood in silence, suffering his inspection. This man was regarded as a traitor by the Calafe, for he had abandoned the alliance after the disastrous southern campaign. Without Gemaho soldiers to aid them, the lands of Calafe had fallen all the quicker to the Tangata. Erika supposed she should hate him for that—after all, Calafe was her native homeland.

  But then, the Calafe had turned their back on Erika’s family after the king—her father—had fallen. By birth, she should have been a princess, honoured amongst the Calafe nobility. Instead the council had named her mother the king’s paramour, and sent them from New Nihelm in exile.

  Why should Erika care whether this man had betrayed the Calafe, when they had done the same to her?

  “So this is Queen Amina’s famed Archivist,” the king said finally.

  Erika offered a short bow. “Thank you for inviting me to your kingdom, Your Majesty,” she replied.

  The king wrinkled his forehead. “It was the least I could do for the daughter of an old friend.”

  For a moment, Erika didn’t understand the man’s words. Her heart twisted in her chest and her mouth suddenly felt dry. She swallowed, struggling for words, as the stoic expression she had cultivated amongst the Flumeeren nobility slipped. There was only one man alive who knew the identify of her father, and she had left him in an infirmary bed back in Fogmore. Surely Romaine hadn’t told anyone…

  “I…what?” she croaked.

  The king chuckled. “I came to know King Micah quite well during our campaign in the south,” the king replied. “It pained me when he…fell in that last battle. It was some years before I learned what had become of his family. I have followed your progress with interest over the last years.”

  Erika clenched her fists, struggling to contain her sudden anger. “I suppose that’s why your man tried to have me killed,” she grated.

  The smile slipped from the king’s lips. “A regrettable miscommunication,” he replied. “I was most relieved to learn you had survived.”

  “And was it also a ‘regrettable miscommunication’ when you abandoned my people to the Tangata?” Erika spat, taking a step towards the king. In her anger, her earlier thoughts were thrust aside.

  Arms clasped behind his back, the king stood regarding her for a long moment. Then he sighed. “I have made many mistakes over the last decade—first among them leading my soldiers against the Tangata. I argued against the invasion, but in the end, I allowed myself to be convinced.” He shook his head. “We were fools to poke the hornet’s nest. Thousands of lives were lost in the south, and for what? Our forces were so depleted that we couldn’t even defend our own lands.”

  “You didn’t even try to defend Calafe,” Erika hissed.

  “It pains me, what has befallen Micah’s nation,” the king replied, “but the sand upon the shore cannot hold back the tides. What we witnessed in the south…” He swallowed, and there was a tightness to his voice as he continued. “The Tangata cannot be stopped, not over open land. Once the Agzor Fortress fell, Calafe was already lost.”

  Erika opened her mouth, then closed it as she saw the pain lurking in the king’s eyes. The anger slipped from her like water through a sieve. He might have only been acting—he was a king after all—but something about the way he spoke about her father, of Calafe, Erika found herself believing him.

  “What’s done is done,” she said finally. “Regardless of the past, it seems you are now the lesser of two evils, Your Majesty.” She bowed her head, projecting defeat. It would not hurt for this man to underestimate her. “The Flumeeren Queen is mad—she would do anything to gain the magic I hold.”

  To her surprise, Nguyen laughed. “The courts of Flumeer have trained you well, Princess.” Erika started at the title—only her father had ever called her that—but the man continued before she could reply. “You do not need to flatter me, nor belittle my rivals. I imagine Amina and I are much alike. We both seek to protect our nations, to keep our peoples safe from enemies. Though, I’ll admit our approaches tend to differ somewhat.”

  Erika frowned and glanced at Maisie, struggling to piece together the meaning behind the king’s words, but the spy only shrugged. On the other couch, Cara still sat glaring at the two of them. The king had not yet addressed the Goddess, and for herself, Cara had been remarkably quiet for the duration of the conversation. Almost as though—

  Click.

  A cry burst from Erika’s lips as the steel cuffs slid from the Goddess’s wrists. With a flicker of movement she was on her feet. The jacket kept her from spreading her wings and chains still bound her legs, but the shimmer in her eyes suggested they would not hinder her.

  In panic, Erika lifted her gauntleted hand and the magic ignited in her fingertips. Its power thrummed in her ears and she felt that familiar rush, the feeling of ecstasy that promised she could destroy her enemies…

  …a gasp tore from Erika and she staggered, closing her fist, smothering the magic.

  What was that?

  A growl returned her attention to Cara. A snarl twisted the Goddess’s face and before anyone could react, she leapt for the king, fingers outstretched...

  …only to slam down into one of the glass tables, all momentum stolen from her spring. A scream tore from Cara’s throat as she smashed through the glass, sending shards tumbling across the floor. Then the cry cut off, though her mouth was stil
l stretched wide, the veins of her throat bulging against her skin. Glass cut her flesh as she thrashed amongst the remnants of the table, as though she were in some great agony…

  Erika’s gaze dropped to her gauntlet, but the light remained dim, its power subdued. It was not she that had struck down the Goddess.

  “I see you’re getting better with the gauntlet’s power,” Maisie said as she stepped around the ruin of the table.

  Turning, Erika took in the king’s outstretched left hand. But he didn’t wear a gauntlet, only the leather riding gloves…the breath hissed from Erika’s throat as she realised what he’d done. He hadn’t been going for a ride—the gloves were to conceal the ancient artefact he wore, a mirror of her own.

  Smiling gently, the king finally lowered his hand and Cara slumped amongst the glass, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Despite herself, Erika felt a rush of guilt at the Goddess’s treatment. This wasn’t right. Cara had been her friend, had saved her life. And this was how she repaid her?

  “An interesting weapon, don’t you think?” the king said conversationally as he stepped up alongside Erika to regard the crumpled Goddess. “I take it this is the fabled creature that was seen soaring over the waters of the Illmoor?”

  Erika swallowed. “Goddess,” she rasped, then belatedly added: “Her name is Cara.”

  “Does it speak?” the king asked.

  A muffled snarl came from Cara as she pushed herself to her hands and knees. “Yes,” she spat.

  The king raised his gauntlet, his smile unchanged. “Well that’s an improvement on the Tangata at least.”

  Breath hissed between Cara’s teeth as she looked at the king. “You humans really know nothing about who you fight, do you?”

  “Little enough,” Nguyen agreed, surprisingly jovial for someone that had just been attacked by a God. “Was there a gap in our knowledge you would like to fill in for us?”

  Cara sat back on her haunches. “I’m sure your ignorance could fill the endless miles between the earth and our moon,” she muttered. She shifted her shoulders, then winced and glanced at the king. “Am I allowed to stretch, or are you going to smite me again, oh mighty king?”

  Nguyen chuckled as he stepped back and gestured for her to stand. Cara climbed to her feet, obviously wary. Slowly, hesitantly, she pulled the jacket from her shoulders.

  The king inhaled sharply as wings stretched across the room. Joints creaked and a moan of relief slipped from Cara’s throat. The auburn feathers shone in the light of the chandelier and even Erika found herself retreating a step. Belatedly the king raised his gauntlet, but this time Cara made no move to attack. Instead, she closed her eyes and her face softened, obviously relieved to finally be free of the jacket’s confinement.

  Erika swallowed, still not quite able to process the sight. A feather had come free with the jacket, and it drifted across the room, coming to rest at her feet. It was almost a foot long and half as broad as her hand. Instinctively she crouched and picked it up, turning it in her fingers. In the days since fleeing Fogmore, her fear had been such that her mind had not lingered on the Goddess, but looking at the feather in her hand, the implications of what she’d done finally began to catch up with her.

  Across the room, Cara opened her eyes and saw that they were all staring. Red tinged her cheeks and the wings quickly retracted against her back. Her gaze fell to the floor.

  “You really have no idea how uncomfortable that thing is…” she muttered, gesturing at the jacket.

  Erika swallowed, unable to summon the words. She figured the sight of Cara’s fully unfurled wings tended to have that effect on people. Beside her, though, the king chuckled.

  “So this is what you westerners call a God?” he asked. Hands clasped behind his back, he began to circle the room, as though to appraise Cara from every angle.

  “What would you call her?” Erika asked, a frown curling her lips. She’d known the Gemaho were not the religious sort, but…surely not even they could maintain their disbelief with the winged Goddess standing before them.

  “You know I can hear you, right?” Cara muttered, crossing her arms. A twitch tugged at her cheek.

  “My apologies, of course,” the king replied politely, as though he hadn’t just sent the Goddess crashing through a glass table. He came to a stop before Cara. “It would seem we now have a simple way of answering our greatest theological questions. So…what do you call yourselves?”

  Cara hesitated, mouth parted as though to speak. She bit her lips. “We call ourselves the Anahera.”

  Erika frowned, turning the word over in her mind. Of course the Gods would have their own name for themselves.

  “And you are Gods?”

  Cara answered the question with a shrug. “What is a God?”

  The king nodded, as though her words had actually been an answer, then turned to Erika. “I suppose it is a matter of perspective,” he said, gesturing with the hand that wore the gauntlet. “Surely whoever created these artefacts were Gods, and yet, why would they grant the devices power over themselves?”

  “The Tangata were born from their magic,” Erika said, quoting the legends. “Perhaps the gauntlets were crafted to fight the creatures.”

  “It could have been so.” The king nodded along to Erika’s logic. “But, what of this situation we find ourselves in? Cara is now my prisoner. Are your Gods truly so feeble as to be taken hostage by their own creations?”

  “Still standing here,” Cara muttered.

  Looking from Cara to the king, Erika could only shake her head. “There is much I do not understand,” she replied.

  Her gaze lingered on Cara. The Goddess had relaxed her wings a little, allowing the auburn feathers to stretch out on either side of her. Her eyes were fixed on a point between Erika and the King, but Erika could see the tightness in her jaw, the way she clenched and unclenched her fists. Suddenly the Goddess turned and their eyes met.

  Erika shivered as she looked into Cara’s amber gaze and found herself transported back to those caverns beneath the earth. Her memory of that time was still hazy—she’d been struck in the head by one of the creatures—but one image stood out in sharp relief.

  Cara covered in the blood, the unstoppable creatures dead at her feet, grey eyes piercing the darkness.

  Silently Erika swallowed and looked away. Whatever the king said, she sensed that if Cara had really wanted them dead, no chains or weapon on this earth could stop her. Which begged the question: why had she allowed them to come this far?

  “Regardless, it seems the good Anahera is to be my guest for a time,” the king was saying. “I have had accommodations prepared. I hope you find them suitable. Erika, we shall arrange another meeting once you’ve rested—I understand there is a map in your possession that has been the source of much interest. For now, though, I must leave you. It seems I will soon have unwelcome guests on my doorstep.”

  “What’s this?” Maisie asked, her head coming up.

  Nguyen offered a grim smile. “It seems Cara’s arrival and subsequent departure from Fogmore has stirred up quite the firestorm. The queen is on the march.”

  Erika’s heart lurched at his words and she opened her mouth to demand more details, but already the king was striding away, vanishing through the doorway. A thundering sounded in Erika’s ears as several servants stepped into the room. She hardly heard what they said. Her gaze fell to the gauntlet she still wore on her hand, and she heard again the last words the queen had spoken to her.

  Do not fail me, Archivist. One way or another, I will have that magic.

  5

  The Fallen

  Romaine staggered up the steps of the general’s quarters, the effort less now than it had been a week ago. That knowledge offered him little comfort. Failure weighed heavily on his shoulders as he reached the door. It opened before he could grasp the handle, a guard within nodding a greeting. A second stood beyond, spear resting casually against his shoulder. These were uncertain times and the gene
ral was taking no risks with his safety.

  Pain sliced Romaine’s chest as he stepped inside and his boot caught on the doorstep. He thrust out his ruined arm to catch himself, and bit back a scream as it struck the doorframe. Belatedly he used his right hand to regain his balance. Teeth clenched, he paused on the threshold, ignoring the stares of the two guards. Stars danced across his vision but he dragged in great lungfuls of air, and eventually they passed.

  “Can I…ah, help you with your coat, sir?” the guard who held the door asked awkwardly.

  “I’m no damned officer,” Romaine snapped, drawing himself up. “And by the Fall, I can take off my own coat.”

  Just as it had for the past week, it took Romaine a good minute to drag the heavy furs from his shoulders. By the time he hung the coat on a hook, he was panting again, and he cursed this newfound weakness. He had always been a quick healer, but then, he’d never had injuries like these. The loss of his hand was not something one simply recovered from. A short sword now hung from his belt, but even that was a façade. He still wasn’t strong enough to even practice with the blade.

  It dragged at him, to feel so weak. Each day he woke to the whisper of voices, telling him to surrender, to give in to his weakness.

  And each day, Cara’s face flickered into his mind, and he would force himself to his feet.

  He had failed Lukys and the Perfugians, had failed his comrades and his wife, even his own son. He would not fail the Goddess.

  Finally recovering his breath, he nodded to the guards and started down the corridor. These visits had become his daily habit, the only thing he felt he could do in his weakened state. Little enough, but it was a start, gave him a reason to leave his house each day.

  The general’s quarters were in one of Fogmore’s original buildings and therefore was better built than the barracks and mess halls, which soldiers had hastily erected to accommodate the standing army now needed to defend the frontier. Panelled walls kept out the worst of the winter drafts and warmth radiated through the corridor from the brazier he knew would be burning in the general’s office. Despite his age, General Curtis was renowned as a leader who did not back down from a hard day’s work—but neither was he a man to suffer unnecessary discomforts.