Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Once through the kitchens, he raced down the narrow corridor that led toward the grand staircase. Please let me be in time! He didn’t know who he prayed to—the Hunter had told him the truth of the thirteen “gods” of Einan—but right now, all that mattered was that he got to Hailen before the kidnappers attacked.

  Hope surged in his chest as a piercing alarm bell rang out around the mansion. Someone had seen the intruders and sounded the alarm. Arch-Guardian Suroth’s guards would come running to help Lady Briana’s bodyguards. If Hailen was with them, he’d be safe, too.

  But Evren couldn’t take the chance. Hailen might be in the small servant’s room across the hall from Lady Briana’s chambers. If the kidnappers entered the wrong door, they might kill Hailen to stop him from crying out.

  Fear lent wings to Evren’s feet and drowned out the hammering in his head. He’d just reached the main staircase when a familiar commanding voice echoed from a nearby hallway.

  “Evren!” Nessa strode from the hall that led to her Steward’s office at the southeastern corner of the mansion. Her hair was a mess, her white Zadii headband crooked, but anger blazed in her eyes. “What is the meaning of this? Where have you been all d—?”

  “Kidnappers!” Evren shouted. “They’ve come for Lady Briana. Samall and Kuhar are with them!”

  Nessa’s eyes widened and she recoiled. “Blessed Keeper!”

  “I’ve got to find Hailen,” Evren said.

  “He was with Lady Bria—”

  Evren didn’t hear the rest of Nessa’s sentence. He was already halfway up the stairs, racing toward the second floor and Lady Briana’s room. A sudden wave of dizziness gripped him and forced him to stop for a breath. It passed in a moment, and he was just about to keep climbing when a piercing scream sounded from above him, accompanied by the clash of steel. Evren’s gut clenched as he reached for his jambiya. He’d fight his way through all of the kidnappers to get to Hailen.

  Movement on the second floor caught his attention. He recognized Hailen’s white-painted face and servants’ robes. The youth was running back in the direction of Lady Briana’s room—right toward the assassins! Hailen was gone before Evren could call out. Heart thundering, Evren sprinted up the stairs and onto the second floor.

  There, he came face to face with Samall, Kuhar, and two men wearing the black robes of the kidnappers.

  Samall’s eyes went to the daggers in Evren’s hands and his lip curled into a sneer. “Kill him,” he commanded.

  Evren felt calm descend over him, the way it always did when he fought in the Master’s Temple. Time seemed to slow around him, and he watched, almost detached, as the two kidnappers and Kuhar charged him. Their long swords hung in the air, moving slowly toward his head. He took in the nervous fear and grim determination in their eyes, the sweat trickling down their faces, even their heavy, ragged breathing.

  Instinct and years of training took over. Evren ducked the first blow, deflected the second with the blade in his right hand, and slashed his left-handed jambiya across Kuhar’s forearm. The attendant cried out and fell back, dropping his sword to clutch at the wound. Evren spun, right hand whipping around in a quick right hook. His fist crashed into an assassin’s jaw, backed by the force of his anger and the weight of his dagger. The man fell like a pole-axed drunk.

  The Hunter’s training had emphasized Evren’s strengths—speed, precision, and his excellent coordination at landing punches—and paired them with the lethal efficiency of his daggers. Just as Evren had taken down apprentices in the Master’s Temple far larger and stronger than him, he brought down these kidnappers with short, sharp blows.

  Before the first man hit the ground, Evren was ducking beneath a long sword strike and bringing his left hand around for an uppercut. But instead of striking with his bare knuckles, the curved edge of his dagger opened the underside of the man’s chin. The blow missed the jugular vein, barely, but it laid open flesh to the bone. As the kidnapper cried out and fell back, Evren snapped a kick into his knee. Bone shattered with a loud crack and the man crumpled. A boot to the face rendered him unconscious.

  Evren stalked toward Kuhar, who was clinging to the wall and desperately trying to stanch the flow of blood gushing from his arm. The strike had severed the artery—the attendant’s legs, weakened from blood loss, gave out as Evren broke into a run. Kuhar might live, might, if he got to a physicker in time.

  Samall had frozen in horror at the sight of Evren taking down his comrades, his eyes wide. Now, he turned to flee from the young man charging at him. Anger burned hot and bright in Evren’s gut as he chased the cowardly traitor through the mansion. Something warned him that Samall would try to use the servant’s staircase to descend to the ground floor, where he could flee out through the tradesman’s gate. The attendant was far better-acquainted with the layout of Arch-Guardian Suroth’s mansion, but Evren pursued him with the same grim determination that had won him freedom from the Master’s Temple.

  He raced down the stairs in time to hear a curse and loud clattering as Samall stumbled over the pots Evren had knocked from their shelves. Evren leapt over the pots and burst out of the rear door. Racing across the courtyard, he caught up to Samall just as the man reached the stables. Evren kicked the back of the man’s knees, sending Samall stumbling into the pile of horse manure he’d had Evren shovel the previous day. He landed face-first with a loud splat. When he managed to extricate himself from the muck and turned to Evren, his expression had gone from disdain to desperate supplication.

  “Please!” Samall begged. “I had no choice. The Gatherers, they made me do it! They threatened my family if I didn’t help them.”

  Evren didn’t bother listening. His fist drove into the man’s face hard enough to shatter teeth. Samall’s head snapped back and he sagged, once more face-first into the droppings.

  For a moment, Evren stared down at the daggers in his hand. The treacherous Samall deserved punishment, preferably something painful and permanent. He had betrayed his employer and, in doing so, put Hailen’s life in danger.

  The moment passed and Evren sheathed his jambiya. Seizing Samall’s pants, he set about dragging the unconscious attendant through the courtyard and down the pathway that led to the front of the house.

  Evren was a fighter; he’d had to be in order to survive in the Master’s Temple and on the streets of Vothmot. Yet he was no killer, not if he had a choice.

  He had the skills. The Hunter and Kiara had both trained him to kill, with blades and fists. He wouldn’t hesitate to take a life in the defense of someone weaker and smaller—someone like Hailen, or like his friend Daver from Vothmot—or if someone threatened to kill him. Yet given a choice, he would prefer to avoid taking a life. The Lecterns’ cruelty and years of hard living on the streets hadn’t completely eroded his humanity. There would always be a part of him that would fight to make the right choice.

  The stout Samall proved a heavy burden to drag, but Evren didn’t release his grip on the man’s pants. He lugged the attendant around to the front of the building, where Nessa stood with Rothin, the head of Suroth’s guard. The two of them were snapping orders and shouting commands to the twenty-odd guards in golden breastplates.

  The Steward’s eyes widened at the sight of Evren dragging the unconscious Samall. Evren stopped in front of her and dropped Samall’s leg. It hit the ground with a loud thump and the man himself gave a quiet groan.

  “He’s alive, eh?” Nessa cocked an eyebrow.

  Evren nodded. “Kuhar’s inside on the stairs. He’s wounded bad. If he gets to a physicker in time, he might live long enough to talk.”

  “He’s not worth the bother.” Nessa’s face hardened as she stared down at Samall. “He’ll be made to speak, and when he’s done, his head will decorate a spike in Murder Square like the traitorous dog he is.”

  “What about his family?” Evren asked. “Will they—”

  “Family?” Nessa’s brow furrowed. “What family?”

  Evren thr
ust a finger at the now-stirring Samall. “He said the Gatherers threatened his family if he didn’t help them.”

  Nessa snorted. “He has no family.” Her lip curled into a sneer. “Traitors will do anything to save themselves. But no lies will save him now.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Get him out of my sight!”

  Two of the guards hurried to gather up Samall. The attendant awoke then, his eyes opening. Fear creased his blocky face and his face turned white as marble. A loud wail burst from his lips as the guards dragged him away.

  Nessa turned to Evren. “I will deal with him. As for you, I will make certain the Arch-Guardian hears of your actions here.”

  Evren bowed. “Thank you, Steward.” The Councilor’s favor could go a long way toward getting him closer to the Blade of Hallar. He might be able to leverage it into a better servant’s position, one that brought him inside the palace.

  Thoughts of the Im’tasi blade sent his mind flashing back to Hailen.

  “Hailen!” The words burst from his lips. “Have any of you seen him?”

  “He the pale-skinned bodyservant?” asked one of the guards.

  “Yes!” Evren nodded. “Is he alive? Is he safe?”

  “He was the one that triggered the alarm,” the guard continued. “Where he is now, I don’t know.”

  Evren turned and sprinted off, in the direction he’d seen Hailen running. He raced through the front door and up the stairs toward the second floor, cursing himself for giving Hailen that dagger. The boy would follow the example set for him by the Hunter and Evren; he’d throw himself in harm’s way to protect Lady Briana.

  “Hailen!” he shouted and reached for his twin daggers. “Hailen!”

  Fear clenched in his belly. He had to find the young boy, make sure he was safe.

  “Hailen!” Desperation tinged his voice as he reached the second floor.

  “He’s in here.” The words echoed from down the side corridor that led toward the rear staircase—the same way Evren had pursued Samall not ten minutes earlier.

  Evren raced down the corridor, toward the small coat room where he’d heard the voice. Confusion furrowed his brow. That voice! It can’t be!

  There, in the coat room, stood Snarth with a dagger pressed to the side of Hailen’s neck.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Kodyn’s heart hammered a frantic beat as the crowd surged around him, slamming into him and shoving him backward. He had no way to break through the ranks of angry, shouting people or the solid line of black-armored Indomitables.

  Gasping, he burst free of the back of the crowd, staggered by the rage that hung thick in the air. The throng surged up Death Row, their enraged cries ringing off the golden sandstone wall that barred the way to the Defender’s Tier.

  The wall!

  An idea born of desperation slammed into his mind and he acted without hesitation. Instead of trying to barrel through the crowd, he turned and raced back down Death Row, toward the Artificer’s Courseway. He sprinted down the decline until he reached the main avenue, turned west, and rushed toward the nearest intersection. The side street stood barely fifty paces from the edge of Death Row and cut northward, toward the border of the Artisan’s Tier.

  Kodyn kept one eye on the chaos on Death Row as he ran. The road rose toward the tier above it, but the two- and three-story houses had been built along the leveled surface. He could see the ranks of Indomitables and the swirling, shouting crowd above the level of the rooftops—and the small gap of cleared space between the soldiers and the gate to the Defender’s Tier.

  If I can get there, I can get through the gate in time!

  He ran until he reached the cliff face on the northern edge of the Artisan’s Tier before turning down the alley that ran east. The back lane dead-ended at the stone wall, and Kodyn skidded to a halt, studying the coarse stone surface in the fading daylight. The climb would be precarious—sandstone tended to crumble if he wasn’t careful, and the incline of Death Row rose fully ten paces above his head. Yet he never hesitated. Aisha and Briana’s lives were on the line.

  Seizing the first handhold, he hauled himself up the cliff face. Sandstone crumbled to dust in his fingers but he was already on to the next step, his left hand gripping a narrow fissure and his right foot digging into a slight indentation. One hand and foot at a time, he scrambled up the wall like a spider. Skill, strength, and instincts honed over his years as a Hawk, a third-story thief, kept him moving upward at a steady speed.

  Yet no matter how fast he climbed, he couldn’t outpace the setting sun. The shadows deepened around him as he scrabbled for purchase on the hard stone. As night fell, it grew more and more difficult to find his next handhold and foothold. Soon, he was forced to feel his way up the cliff.

  Every delay, every moment of hesitation, added to his mounting frustration and fear. Not for himself or his wellbeing—though he knew a fall from this height would shatter bones at best or kill him at worst—but for Aisha and Briana. The Gatherers were coming for Briana, and Kodyn knew Aisha would fight to the death to protect the Dhukari girl. If there were too many cultists…

  No! He pushed the image of Aisha’s bloodied corpse from his mind. I won’t let that happen. I’ll get to them in time, no matter what!

  Slowly, one step at a time, the stony ground grew more distant below him and the upper lip of the cliff drew nearer. Five paces became four, three, two, then one. Kodyn hesitated only an instant—shooting a glance at the rear of the Indomitable ranks holding off the crowd—before pulling himself up onto the slope of Death Row.

  He was on his feet in an instant, hands held wide. A trio of black-armored soldiers rushed toward him, sickle-shaped swords at the ready.

  “I’m a Dhukari servant!” he shouted. The roar of the crowd behind him drowned out his words. To his relief, the sight of his pale skin and the gold-and-green headband encircling his forehead caused the guards to slow.

  “I need to get to the Keeper’s Tier!” Kodyn moved toward them. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Go!” With a nod, the nearest Indomitable—an officer, judging by the vertical stripe of silver on the blue band of his helmet—beckoned for the guards to let him pass.

  Kodyn sprinted through the gate and onto the Defender’s Tier, heart racing in time with his flying feet. His pulse hammered in his ears. Run, run, run, run, it seemed to say, filling him with a renewed sense of urgency.

  For the last nine years as a Hawk apprentice, he’d been subjected to Bryden’s vindictiveness—Master Hawk hated Kodyn’s mother with every fiber of his petty being. Kodyn had been forced to weather the storm of Bryden’s enmity on his own. His mother couldn’t protect him; he had to stand on his own feet.

  That, perhaps, had caused him to be so protective of others. First the younger Hawk apprentices, like Sid, the boy that had nearly died at the Gatherers’ hand in Praamis. Now Briana, the girl he’d found, freed, and sworn to return home. He hadn’t had a shield to protect him from the cruelties of the world, but he had vowed to be that for others.

  And now he was about to break that vow. He’d barely saved Sid in time; the boy had been strapped to the Gatherers’ table, their cruel poison killing him slowly. He couldn’t fail Briana, too.

  Please! he begged silently in his mind. Please don’t let it be too late.

  The run to the Keeper’s Tier couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes, but to Kodyn, it felt as if a lifetime passed before he finally saw the gate. He slowed only long enough to point out his headband, which elicited the same response as with the Indomitables below.

  I made it! Hope surged in his chest. The sun hadn’t set more than half an hour earlier—he still had time to get to Briana and Aisha, to warn Suroth’s guards before the Gatherers attacked.

  He raced down the side street that led to Suroth’s mansion. “Open the gate!” he yelled as he approached. Rothin had ordered the gates closed at sundown, as usual. “Open the Keeper-damned gate!”

  The w
icket gate opened and a puzzled-looking Rothin appeared. “What the—?”

  Kodyn barreled past the man, nearly knocking him over in his haste. “The Gatherers!” he shouted as he raced up the walkway toward the front door. “They’re going to attack.”

  He didn’t pause to find out if or how Rothin and the other guards responded. He never slowed, but maintained his desperate dash through the front doors and down the hall toward the staircase. His mission was to reach Aisha and Briana before—

  Icy feet danced down his spine as he caught sight of the figures moving up the stairs. Five of them, clad in dark hooded cloaks, carrying short swords. From the second floor came the sound of something heavy crashing against a wooden door.

  Horror brought acid surging to Kodyn’s throat. He was too late. The Gatherers had arrived before him. Even now, they could be standing over Aisha’s corpse and hauling Briana away.

  A war cry, bellowed in Ghandian, sent a sudden rush of energy coursing through him. Aisha was still alive! He’d arrived in time.

  He answered Aisha’s war cry with one of his own. “Die, you bastards!” Daggers in hand, he charged up the stairs to attack the rearmost Gatherers.

  Five faces turned toward him, but too late for the cultist in the rear. Kodyn’s right-handed dagger took the assassin in the spine, just below the base of his skull. The man sagged when Kodyn ripped it free, his body flopping limply onto the assassin on the stair above, tangling the two of them in a mess of flailing limbs. Kodyn scooped up the fallen man’s short sword and hacked down another cloaked figure, blocked a wild swing from the man on the floor, and drove his dagger into the first man’s face. The stolen short sword put an end to the prone assassin before he could disentangle himself from his dying comrade.

  A wordless roar of rage ripped from his throat as he fell on the remaining assassins. He’d left his long sword on his bed before leaving, but his training with Master Serpent made him deadly even with just his daggers. Now he had a short sword in one hand and a knife in the other—the assassins would know the wrath of the Night Guild.