Trial of Stone
(Heirs of Destiny Book 1)
By Andy Peloquin
Copyright. First Edition
Andy Peloquin
©2019, Andy Peloquin
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.
Any resemblance to persons, places living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Crucible of Fortune (Heirs of Destiny Book 2)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Crucible of Fortune (Heirs of Destiny Book 2)
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Enjoy More Series by Andy Peloquin
Queen of Thieves
Hero of Darkness
About the Author
Glossary
Gods of Einan
Trial of Stone Characters
Military Ranks
Chapter One
Five years and a day, Issa thought. Five years and a day training in Killian’s forge for this moment, and this is who I’m up against?
Her eyes locked on the hulking brute that stood a few yards to her right. His stance, low guard with his right foot shuffled slightly back and to one side, marked him as a student of the Academy of the Silver Sword. Broader in the shoulder than a draftsman’s ox, with hands that looked too large for his two-handed blade, he would be a fearsome foe for any contender. The ornate turquoise band of an Alqati around his copper-skinned forehead marked him as a member of Shalandra’s military caste—with all the training that included.
Yet despite the fear coiling in Issa’s gut, she forced herself to stand tall and face her challenger without hesitation. Nervous sweat rolled down the big man’s face—he felt as unnerved as she, as daunted by what lay ahead. He, too, knew that his hopes of surviving the trial of steel hinged on his courage, skill, and the strength of his arms.
She could almost read the unspoken question in his eyes: Am I prepared for this?
Issa had done everything in her power to assuage those doubts. She’d trained for years in preparation of Hallar’s Calling, the yearly tournament that selected only those blessed by the Long Keeper to join the Blades. Five years evading Savta and Saba’s questions or lying to them, all in the hope that she could lift her family out of the squalor they were cursed to as Earaqi. She hadn’t been chosen, hadn’t been summoned to the Hall of the Beyond for the trial of the Crucible. That hadn’t stopped her, just as this new obstacle wouldn’t stop her.
No meathead is going to get in my way. She clenched her jaw, determined. I will claim one of those blades.
The clarion call of a trumpet snapped Issa’s attention away from her immediate foe.
The time has come.
Her gaze roamed over the five thousand spectators sitting in breathless silence on the stone benches that surrounded the Crucible, the arena testing grounds where she and her fellow hopefuls would face the Long Keeper’s challenge in the hope of being chosen to serve. High golden sandstone walls separated her from the people—from high-ranking Dhukari to those Mahjuri and Earaqi fortunate enough to receive the invitation to witness the spectacle—but their faces revealed the same eager excitement that thrummed through her. They had come to see battle and death, and by the Long Keeper, they would have it!
As the trumpet sounded again, five thousand pairs of eyes turned away from the Crucible and toward the Royal Stands. Amhoset Nephelcheres, Pharus of Shalandra, Servant of the Long Keeper, Word of Justice and Death, sat on a throne carved from the same golden sandstone of the arena. He was a regal figure, tall with broad shoulders and a strong head to bear the ornate golden headdress of his office. A mountain of plush, velvet-covered pillows softened his seat, and servants wearing golden Dhukari headbands held fans of ostrich feathers and gold-inlaid wood to shield him from the bright midday sun.
Yet Issa’s eyes traveled to the figure sitting beside him. Callista Vinaus, Lady of Blades, sat in a similar throne, yet hers lacked any trace of ostentation and comfort. She didn’t so much sit as perch, her posture at once relaxed and wary. Her two-handed Shalandran steel sword of office rested against the side of her chair, and she wore the black, ridged plate mail of a Keeper’s Blade.
Though the woman’s hard face lacked the Pharus’ classical beauty, even from this distance, Issa could see that it had a beauty of its own—the strength and determination that earned her the highest-ranking military office in Shalandra. Like all Keeper’s Blades, she wore a helmet—shaped like a snarling mountain lion—rather than a headband, but the stripe of gold on the helmet’s forehead marked her as Dhukari.
Issa’s gut tightened. If she emerged victorious, she would serve the Lady of Blades directly. It was the highest calling in Shalandra outside of the Necroseti priesthood, and the only way to give her grandparents a better life. Savta and Saba would finally be able to stop their toiling and enjoy their golden years in the comfort of the Keeper’s Tier, the level of the city reserved for the Dhukari. Issa fought for them this day.
Tinush, the eldest member of the Keeper’s Council and High Divinity of the Necroseti, stood and strode toward the edge of the Keeper’s Stands—the box reserved for the highest-ranking of the Long Keeper’s clerics. His shin-length shendyt was made of linen spun with gold thread, a match for the white-and-gold stole draped over his aging shoulders. Like all of the high-ranking Necroseti, he wore a bejeweled white hedjet, a tall, almost conical-looking crown that sat atop his golden headband. Thick bands of kohl ringed his eyes and he’d painted on seven large black dots to denote his rank.
“Uncover yourselves.” Tinush’s voice rang out loud across the Crucible with a strength that belied his age. “Remove all trappings of rank and caste, for today you stand bare before the Long Keeper’s judgement.”
Issa and the others in
the Crucible reached up and removed their headbands, the markings of their caste. Issa’s simple red cloth band marked her as Earaqi, the laborer caste. Most of those surrounding her wore the bright blue of Alqati, white of the Zadii, and brown of the Intaji. A few wore the gold bands that marked them as members of the Dhukari, Shalandra’s ruling caste. Only one other person in the arena, a willowy boy two or three years younger than her, wore the red. Two young girls standing off to the side tried to hide the black headbands that marked them as Mahjuri, the wretched caste. None of the enslaved Kabili would fight bare-headed today.
“The Long Keeper cares not for titles, wealth, or fame,” Tinush continued, his voice echoing with strength across the arena. “The god of death cares only for one thing: your courage. Courage alone will mark you as deserving to join the Blades, the Long Keeper’s warriors on Einan. Steel your hearts, for only the worthy will come through victorious.”
Issa felt the familiar tightness in her gut, the thrill of anticipated battle trembling in her hands. She didn’t know if she was worthy—no one did until they faced the test of the Crucible—but she had done everything she could to be ready for this moment. Killian had insisted she wait another year. She hadn’t listened, and now it was too late to go back.
She didn’t want to go back. More than anything else, she wanted the horn to sound the beginning of the trial. The moment she heard that sound, her life would change.
“Always know your surroundings.” Killian’s words echoed in her mind. “Even the slightest bump or dip in the ground, the smallest twig can be turned into a weapon against your enemy.”
Between hammering heartbeats, Issa drank in every detail of the Crucible. Solid stone walls thirty feet high ran in a circle two hundred feet in diameter. A ring of sand-covered ground surrounded the outer edge of the Pit, with eight wooden plank bridges spanning the deep, ten-foot wide ditch that separated them from the Keeper’s Steps at the middle. Wooden platforms built like uneven stepping stones rose thirty feet into the air in the heart of the area. Upon the highest platform stood the stone sheaths that held the five two-handed flame swords of the Blades.
Her fists clenched to still the tremor, to calm her nerves. She would claim one of those weapons today. She had to.
The clangor of the horn shattered the breathless silence, accompanied by the sudden roar of the crowd. The signal had been given. The trial of steel had begun.
As Issa expected, the huge ox-sized brute to her right charged straight at her. Sixty-five young men and women faced the Crucible today; no more than five would claim the blades and emerge victorious. But the swords would not fall to the quickest or cleverest. The Blades were warriors, training in the art of battle and conquest. They sought those that could outfight their enemies as well as outrace them.
Issa sized up her bull-rushing opponent. He moved with the grace of a practiced combatant, his sword held steady even as his huge feet pounded toward her. The Academy of the Silver Sword taught their fighters to use size and strength as well as skill. With that huge two-handed sword, a well-forged steel simulacrum of the flame blades he sought to claim, he could cut her in half. Casualties among the tested were high.
But Issa had no intention of being one. Even as the huge boy rushed her, she stepped back into a stance taught at the Academy of the Striking Serpents. She wielded two short blades to his larger one and the pose—right-handed sword held low, left-handed sword poised for a high strike—gave her the speed to combat his strength.
The boy slowed as he came within striking range and swung a testing blow. Issa batted the soft strike aside and chopped at him with her right-handed sword. When her opponent blocked low, she aimed high. She didn’t give him time to regain his balance but pushed him hard.
“Always make your enemy underestimate you,” Killian had pounded into her daily for their five years of lessons. “Make them see you as nothing but an Earaqi girl until you’re ready to spring your trap.”
Not for the first time, Issa gave silent thanks that Killian insisted on teaching her all the sword styles practiced in the six Academies of Shalandra reserved for the upper castes. She, like all low-caste Shalandrans unable to afford costly private education, attended the Institute of the Seven Faces, the school available to the general public. Her low-caste studies had prepared her to fight like a brawler, but Killian had hammered those tendencies out of her with the same ruthlessness that he hammered the steel in his smithy.
When the huge boy transitioned into the high guard pose favored by Silver Sword students, Issa smiled. She’d trained to defeat this stance and its powerful chopping attacks for more than a year now.
Underestimate this!
She stepped in with a low swing meant to bait her opponent, then twisted out of the path of the expected blow. The heavy two-handed sword whistled inches past her face and thunked into the dirt. Issa’s left handed-blade struck out and carved a thin line across the back of the boy’s hand, hard enough to loosen his grip without severing fingers. She drove the tip of her right-handed sword into his thigh until it struck bone. The boy howled, falling to one knee, and Issa knocked him out of the fight with a hard punch to the face–a mercy he likely wouldn’t have extended to her.
Before the boy’s unconscious body thumped onto the sandy soil, Issa whirled to face her next opponent. The melee swirled around her as the young men and women locked in combat—some to the death. Already, the blood of more than a dozen stained the sands. High-caste Alqati and Dhukari died beside Earaqi laborers and Mahjuri outcasts.
Instinct and hard training warned Issa of a threat from behind. She whirled and brought up her swords in time to block a powerful cross-body blow from a two-handed sword. The impact knocked her backward and sent her blades wide, but she threw herself into a roll that carried her out of her enemy’s reach.
“Not today, lowborn!” snarled the young man facing her. He looked about the same age as her, with long, curling hair pulled into a tight braid at the nape of his neck and features that might have been handsome had they not been twisted by rage and bloodlust. Though he fought bare-headed, the kohl ringing his eyes and seven black beauty marks on his face marked him as one of the Dhukari, a son of the Necroseti priests.
A hard smile touched Issa’s lips. Doubtless the youth’s father and mother watched from the stands. What will they think when they see their son bested by an Earaqi?
The Dhukari shot a contemptuous glance at her short swords. “You got lucky with Lorkal,” he said, his eyes darting to the unconscious hulk at her feet. “He never was the Academy’s best. Let’s see what happens when you face the Silver Sword’s finest.”
When the youth stepped toward her, Issa did the one thing he didn’t expect: she hurled her short swords at him. A quick throw, meant to knock him off-guard and shatter his concentration for a second. The young man batted aside her first blade with ease and grunted as the pommel of the second hit him square in the chest.
Issa was already charging, pausing in her furious rush long enough to scoop up the two-handed sword of her fallen foe. The young man’s sneer changed to wide-eyed surprise as he recovered and found her rushing straight at him.
She threw all the force of her arms and shoulders, strengthened by years of training and swinging Killian’s hammer, into the blow. The two-handed sword crashed into the youth’s with jarring force. Her edge slammed into the flat of his blade. Any ordinary weapon would have bent, but his premium-quality Voramian steel sword simply flew from his hands.
The tip of her blade was at his throat in an instant. “Silver Sword’s finest?” She snorted. “Makes me glad I didn’t bother.”
Before Issa could strike—a blow to wound or kill, she never decided—movement flashed in the corner of her eye. She whipped her two-handed sword up and around to deflect a blow aimed for her neck. The strike, which would have opened her throat, flew wide. Issa didn’t bother bringing her heavy, two-handed blade around for a counterstrike against her opponent, one of the two Mahjuri
girls. Instead, she reached up to grip the edge of the sword just above the crossguard and whipped the pommel around. The heavy steel knob slammed into the side of the girl’s head.
The Mahjuri girl staggered backward, stunned. Issa whipped around to take down the arrogant Dhukari youth, but the boy had scooped up his sword and was locked in combat with a shorter, smaller young man.
In the momentary lull, Issa took in the rest of the combatants. Only thirty of the original sixty-five remained standing, all fighting in twos and threes. Issa’s gut tightened as she saw three figures pounding over the wooden bridges and leaping onto the platforms that led up toward the blades.
Killian’s words echoed in her mind once again. “Just reaching the top doesn’t guarantee you get a blade. Only the worthy will be able to draw the swords.”
With a growl, Issa turned away from the battle and raced toward the nearest bridge. The wood creaked and sagged beneath her, and it took a conscious effort not to look down into the twenty-foot pit lined with sharp steel spikes. She heard the crunch of wood and an agonized scream off to her right as one of the bridges collapsed beneath two racing youths.
The sound of pounding feet echoed behind her and Issa had to throw herself to the side to avoid a sword stroke aimed at her back. She leapt up onto a short wooden platform just as the arrogant Dhukari boy made the crossing. But instead of following her, the young man turned and, with a vicious snarl, set about hacking at the bridge.
The Mahjuri girl had raced after them and had gotten halfway across before the bridge began to shudder. Issa saw that with two or three more well-placed strikes, the youth would collapse the bridge and the young girl would plummet to a horrible death. She hesitated only a heartbeat before leaping back down and charging the boy. They might be competing for the same five blades, but no one—especially no one that lived a life as hard as the Mahjuri, the outcasts and wretched of Shalandra’s poorest tier—deserve to die like that.
Issa yelled as she charged, just to get the youth’s attention. The young man turned to her and deflected her wild strike, but Issa hadn’t intended to kill him. Just distract him for a few seconds.
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