Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  If she charged in a sharp-tipped spear formation, she might actually punch through the first, even second battle line. But she’d get bogged down at the third line, then quickly surrounded and slaughtered. She’d fail before reaching the halfway mark.

  Her mind raced. She couldn’t win this with brute strength or superior skill. This was a time to outthink rather than outfight the enemy.

  She studied the ten trainees assigned to her. All smaller than their enemies, weaker, doubtless far less skilled. Yet Killian’s words, the words that had carried her to victory in the Crucible, echoed in her mind.

  “Always make your enemy underestimate you. Make them see you as nothing but an Earaqi girl until you’re ready to spring your trap.”

  She wasn’t the only low-caste warrior in their company. All of those assigned to her wore Earaqi red or Mahjuri black, with only one white Zadii headband. None of them would have the extensive martial training common in the Academies. Instead, they’d know the brutal, efficient tactics—little more than street fighting with bladed weapons—taught at the Institutes of the Seven Faces. That, and any skills they’d picked up during their years roaming the streets of the lower tiers.

  “They know there’s no way we’re getting through,” Issa told her company, “but with the Invictus watching, they know we’re going to have to try. So we’ll give them what they want. We’re going right through the middle, spear formation.”

  “Fastest way to get killed!” snorted one of the young men, a Mahjuri by the name of Nysin. “We’ll get through one, maybe two lines before our momentum runs out.”

  Issa nodded. “Exactly.” Nysin had come to the same conclusion as her; he might have a better understanding of tactics and strategy than the others. “But we’re not going to try to cut our way through to the pennant. We’re not going to fight like the Dhukari and Alqati we face. We’re doing this street-style.”

  She looked at each of them in turn. “Which of you is the fastest runner?”

  Two of the Earaqi girls exchanged glances. The taller, a slender young woman by the name of Rilith, pointed to the other. “Enyera, probably.”

  “Good.” Issa turned to the shorter of the two. “I want you at the rear of our position and ready to run like your life depends on it.”

  “I can do that.” Enyera, a short girl just on the well-built side of petite, raised an eyebrow. “But there’s no way I can get around four lines.”

  “Think you can get around two?” Issa asked. “No shield or armor to weigh you down, just that club to defend yourself?”

  Enyera glanced down at the truncheon in her hand, her expression skeptical. After a moment, she shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

  “Then watch for your opening. There will be a moment after we get bogged down, before they surround us, that you’ll have a gap to slip through. If we can punch through to the third line before they stop us dead, you’ve just got one line to get around. That fourth line may be so focused on moving forward to encircle us that they won’t notice you skirting the third line. You’re our best chance of getting that pennant.”

  Enyera’s lips tugged upward. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “As for the rest of us,” Issa turned to the other nine trainees, “it’s our job to hit them with everything we’ve got and keep their attention on us long enough for Enyera to get through. It’s going to be brutal, but if there’s one thing we can do, it’s take a beating!”

  She saw agreement etched into the eyes of her company. The Mahjuri had it worst of all, but life as an Earaqi was hard, often more so than the Kabili that served in Shalandra’s mines. Judging by the scars crisscrossing the Intaji youth’s hands, he knew the meaning of toil and suffering. The well-fed, well-dressed, pampered youths of the Dhukari were soft. Even the Alqati lived comfortable lives by comparison to the lower castes. The Invictus had done her a favor when choosing her company.

  “For the first time in our lives, we’re not only permitted to strike a member of the upper caste, we’re required to.” A savage grin split Issa’s face and she spoke in a low growl. “Make them hurt.”

  Answering smiles blossomed on the faces of her company. Rilith even laughed as she hefted her baton. “With pleasure.”

  “Spear formation,” Issa called. “Hit them hard and don’t stop until we’re through to the third line.”

  Her company formed up, and Issa’s gut tightened as she took her place at the tip of the spear.

  She tightened her grip on her two wooden batons—Tannard’s idea of magnanimity—and rolled her shoulders in anticipation. Her eyes darted toward the Invictus, who stood watching from the sidelines.

  You won’t break me, she swore silently. Throw everyone in Shalandra at me. It won’t stop me.

  With a deep breath, she raised her right-handed weapon and shouted, “Charge!”

  She raced toward the enemy, her small company thundering on her heels. Her long legs carried her across the cleared space in a matter of seconds and, with a roar, she slammed into the front rank of trainees.

  Her wooden batons flashed out to block a high chop and a thrust from the two combatants in front of her. Her momentum carried her through the first rank, then the second, but she had enough time to lash out with powerful blows of her truncheons. Wood struck flesh with dull thumps and two of the enemies sagged, only to be knocked aside by the trainees charging behind Issa.

  First line!

  Triumph surged within her chest as she pounded the five yards toward the second battle line. She poured as much speed into her legs as she could manage and crashed into her enemies with the force of a runaway carriage rolling down Trader’s Way. She grunted as a dulled steel blade clipped the side of her head, another striking off her collar bone with jarring force. Her answering blows smacked into the skull and forearm of the enemies in front of her. She winced at the crack of bone but had no time for pity. Even as the blunt steel sword dropped from her enemy’s hand, she hurled her right-handed truncheon at another foe and scooped up the falling blade before it struck the sand.

  Then she was through the second line and racing toward the third. She heard cries of pain from behind her, but the boots of her comrades pounded along to her right and left. Shouting her defiance, Issa raised her sword and brought it down hard onto the blade of the young Alqati man directly in front of her. The blow battered through his defenses and slammed into the side of his head. He sagged on wobbling legs, stunned.

  Issa’s triumph turned to defeat in that moment. The staggering youth stumbled forward, right into her. She caught him and hurled him aside before he could lock arms blindly around her, but that moment cost her dearly. Her charge slowed, momentum gone, and now she faced a full line of twelve armored Indomitables wielding steel swords.

  “Now!” She could only hope Enyera caught the command as her signal, but she had no time to look back. Three opponents surged toward her, steel blades singing in the bright morning air.

  Issa batted aside the first two strikes with quick parries, but the third slipped through her guard and struck her chest hard enough to send pain flaring down her breastbone. The blow knocked her back a half-step and, before she could recover, two more attacks struck her right leg and left forearm. Her truncheon dropped from nerveless fingers.

  Issa gritted her teeth against a cry of pain. She whipped her sword up and around to deflect a powerful strike aimed at her head, but that exposed her stomach to a low, horizontal chop. She doubled over as the blow knocked the breath from her lungs. Desperate, she lashed out in an attempt to drive back her enemy.

  But there were too many—in front, behind, and now closing in from their flanks. Her company would be overrun in seconds. If Enyera didn’t reach the pennant now, she and her trainees would fall.

  The clash of steel, the thump of wood striking flesh, and the grunts of fighting men echoed loud in Issa’s ears, but no trumpet to signal the halt of battle.

  Then Kellas was there, kohl-rimmed eyes locked on her, an ar
rogant sneer on his lips as he raised his two-handed sword to strike. Issa blocked his attack, even though it opened her up to another blow from the side—she’d be damned if she let the Dhukari hit her even once.

  A blow to her leg nearly shattered her knee and she sagged, crying out in pain. She tried to block the follow-up strike, only to take a slashing strike across her right forearm. The dull blade opened a deep gash and blood dripped down her elbow to her shoulder.

  She fought through the pain, through the knowledge that her comrades were falling behind her. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the fight to track Enyera’s movement. All she could do was just hold the enemy off until the trumpet sounded.

  Three blows struck at once, to her back, neck, and the top of her skull. Issa toppled forward and crashed to the sand face first. Darkness reached cool, welcoming fingers toward her.

  Where is the trumpet?

  It never came.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Evren went rigid, motionless.

  “If you’re hiding from the Indomitables,” said the cold voice, “well that means you’ve done something wrong, doesn’t it? Now, how much coin do you think it’ll take to convince me not to turn you over?”

  Evren tensed as he felt a hand reach into his right trouser pocket, doubtless in search of a pouch. He turned his hips slightly, pulling his pocket away from the searching hand without risking the dagger punching into his spine. When the hand followed his movements, the blade moved a finger’s breadth away from his back.

  Just enough for Evren to attack.

  He spun to the left and whipped his elbow around. The sharp-tipped bone slammed into the side of a face—a very dirty face that belonged to a very dirty young man that looked to be around Evren’s age. The blow collided with the youth’s jaw and sent him staggering. Evren moved with the spin, seized the boy’s flailing wrist, and twisted it behind his back. With his left hand, he seized the scruff of the boy’s neck and slammed him into the wall. The boy collapsed, blood leaking from his nose, and Evren leapt atop his back before he could recover. A flick of his wrist dropped his throwing dagger into his palm and he pressed the tip against the base of the youth’s skull.

  “How much do you think it’ll take to convince me not to drive this into your brain here and now?” Evren snarled.

  A muffled grunt met his question—it was all the boy could manage with Evren shoving his face hard into the dust.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” came another voice, firmer, with a note of command, “I’d rather we didn’t have to kill the both of you here and now.”

  Without removing the dagger from the boy’s head, Evren looked behind him. The speaker was an older man, with strong facial features and sharp eyes. Grey showed at his temples but he had an abundance of black in his short-cropped hair and thick beard. His barrel chest and broad shoulders matched the smith’s hammer in his hand.

  Evren’s eyes dropped to the strange metal contraption on the man’s right leg: a brace, articulated at the knee, with thick leather straps that clutched his thigh and calf. The metal clicked quietly as the blacksmith took a step forward.

  “Let Snarth up and we can talk like civilized people,” the blacksmith said.

  Ten young boys stood around the man. They looked between the ages of seven and fifteen, though one couldn’t be more than four years old. Their clothing ranged from ragged to well-tailored, and they wore headbands of blue, black, red, brown, and white. At a glance, Evren saw a hard wariness in their eyes that could only come from a life on the streets.

  Their weapons and posture spoke volumes as well. Two pointed compact handheld crossbows at him, while a third covered Hailen. The rest held daggers, hammers, and assorted metal bars collected from the smithy. Though simple and crude, the weapons would prove deadly effective at this range and with this number.

  Yet Evren had stared into the face of death uncowed before. “Given that he threatened to jam a dagger into my spine, I’m not exactly feeling kindly toward your Snarth right now.”

  The blacksmith’s teeth shone white against his beard as he smiled. “To be fair, you were the ones who climbed over my wall. Here in Shalandra, those looking to do legitimate business tend to come through the front door. Those taking the back way tend to get stabbed first, questioned later.”

  “Fair point.” Evren inclined his head but didn’t remove the dagger from Snarth’s spine. “If I let him up, he’s not going to try and stab me again, is he?”

  “You have my word he won’t.” The bearded man fixed Evren with a curious gaze. “Though I will be expecting some sort of explanation as to your presence. I don’t know what you did, but you’ve got the Indomitables spitting blood and fury.”

  Evren grimaced. “So much fuss over a little punch.”

  The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. “It all depends on who you punched, really.”

  “Some fat bastard with too little clothing and a golden headband.”

  Both of the smith’s bushy eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “If you’re laying hands on one of the Dhukari, you’re as foreign to Shalandra as he is.” He inclined his head toward Hailen. “How’s this? Let Snarth up, and you have my word we won’t turn you over to the Indomitables to be sold in Auctioneer’s Square.”

  Evren mulled over the offer. “Kind of hard to say no with those crossbows aimed at us.”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it?” A smile tugged at the man’s lips as he studied Evren.

  Evren stood and stepped back, giving the downed boy a wide berth. Snarth picked himself up off the ground and shot him a venomous glare. Evren tensed in expectation of an attack, hands at the ready.

  “Get inside,” the blacksmith said. “There’s steel that needs working and it’s your turn at the bellows.”

  Snarth looked like he wanted to protest but remained silent at the stern look on the man’s face. Instead, he snarled a muttered curse, dusted himself off, and stormed through the now-open back door that led into the forge.

  “A few hours spent pounding hot steel should help him forget his clumsy mistake,” the man said. Without taking his eyes from Evren and Hailen, he gestured to the youths that held the crossbows. Evren breathed an inward sigh of relief as the sharp-tipped bolts lowered to point at the dusty courtyard.

  “Now, I think it’s time for that explanation.” The man took a few stumping steps toward Evren, his knee brace making that strange clicking sound. “Let’s start off with names. I’m Killian, master of this blacksmith. Your turn.”

  Evren hesitated. He’d rehearsed the tale that got him into the city—sick father, dutiful son bringing the grain to market in Shalandra—but had neglected to come up with fake names for him and Hailen. He could always lie, but the wary look in the blacksmith’s dark eyes made it clear the man would prove challenging to fool.

  He opted for the truth. “Evren.”

  “I’m Hailen!” Hailen piped up from behind him.

  Evren’s gut clenched, but he forced himself to relax. The names would mean nothing to this man—bloody hell, they probably meant nothing to anyone except for the Hunter, Kiara, Graeme, the Cambionari, and, in Evren’s case, a temple full of vindictive Lecterns two thousand leagues to the north.

  “And what, Evren and Hailen, brings you two into my backyard?” Killian cocked his head. “I’d say it was the legendary quality of my wares, but if that were the case, you’d likely be coming in the front. And anyone foolish enough to punch a Dhukari is clearly not from Shalandra. So how, pray tell, did two youths from…” He eyed the two of them. “…far to the north end up here?”

  Again, Evren pondered his choices. Lie and hope he was convincing enough that this Killian believed him? The blacksmith’s dark eyes belied his pleasant demeanor. Evren had known enough hard, cunning men in his time on the streets of Vothmot—and his years with the Hunter—to recognize them at a glance.

  “That’s a bit of a tough question,” Evren said. “On the one hand, if I lie, you’ll likely put tho
se little crossbows to the test.” He brought both hands up, palms facing the sky. “On the other, the truth’s just as liable to get us both killed.”

  “A quandary, indeed.” Killian smiled. “Would it help if I told you that I’m a very open-minded individual? You might be surprised to find I’m less fond of the established order than the average Shalandran.” His eyes went to the dagger in Evren’s hand. “Judging by the blade in your hand and the ones tucked into the back of your belt and the tops of your boots, that’s a sentiment you seem to share.”

  Evren tensed. How did he know? Even if Killian had spotted the two jambiya blades when he was knocking down Snarth, the daggers in his boots were invisible. The Hunter had special-ordered the boots and weapons from his own personal cobbler and bladesmith.

  Killian’s smile widened. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He turned to his boys and gave a dismissive wave. “You all have jobs to be about. Training is done for the day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, Killian.”

  The ten boys trooped out of the yard—a training yard, Evren realized, taking in the white chalk square in the center and wooden benches along the wall.

  After a moment, Evren slipped the dagger into his wrist sheath. Killian had the sloped shoulders and strong arms of a blacksmith, but Evren reasoned he could defend himself and Hailen should the need arise. If nothing else, the two of them could definitely outrun the smith.

  “Training, eh?” He looked around. “Something tells me this is a secret you’d rather I didn’t let out into the world.”

  “Just as I’m sure you’d rather your assault on a Dhukari didn’t become public knowledge.” Killian inclined his head. “So let’s begin this negotiation with the understanding that we both have things we’re keeping from the other.”

  “Negotiation?” Evren scrunched up his face. “What are we negotiating for?”

  “Why, for you to come and work for me, of course!” Killian beamed. “In exchange for my assistance in procuring whatever you’ve come to Shalandra to steal.”