Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  “Yes, but I had to get back to Suroth’s mansion to warn Lady Briana’s bodyguards about the attempt on her life.”

  Killian arched an eyebrow. “And to protect your brother, of course.”

  Evren nodded. “He was assigned as Lady Briana’s bodyservant. But you already knew that.”

  Killian inclined his head.

  “And by now you know that the Gatherers are the ones that attacked Lady Briana.”

  “As well as the Keeper’s Council in the palace itself,” Killian added.

  Evren’s gut clenched. That’s what Samall and Kuhar were doing in the palace. He’d spotted them outside the kitchens, scouting a secret way to slip through a storeroom into the palace unseen.

  Watcher’s teeth! If the palace guards are even half-competent, they’ll have discovered that entrance by now. No chance I’ll get in that way. His heart sank. Which means I have to work with Kodyn to find another way to get at the Vault of Ancients.

  That meant taking on the Gatherers and the Necroseti beside Kodyn, Briana, and Aisha. To have any chance of success, he’d need Killian’s help.

  “There’s something you need to know,” he told the blacksmith. “Lady Briana is going after the Gatherers that killed her father.”

  “Is that so?” Killian’s expression grew musing. “The Indomitables have been searching for the cultists for months now and have come up empty-handed.”

  Evren shrugged. “Then they’re doing it wrong. I’m willing to bet they’re approaching it like soldiers, banging down doors and marching through the streets with a show of force.”

  After a moment, Killian nodded. “You’d win that wager.”

  “No way they’re going to find the Gatherers, then,” Evren said. “But I’m also willing to bet you’ve had more success finding them. Your Mumblers draw far less attention.”

  Killian pursed his lips.

  “Information is your stock and trade, isn’t it?” Evren grinned. “What could be more valuable than information on where to find the Gatherers? Right now, the Pharus himself would likely pay a kingdom’s fortune to find them.”

  After a moment, Killian shook his head. “Sadly, that fortune will go unclaimed, at least by me. My Mumblers have found a few meeting places and hideouts, all abandoned, and the Gatherers seem smart enough to never use the same location twice.”

  Evren frowned. “Damn.” If Killian didn’t know how to find the cultists, Lady Briana’s quest to root them out would prove much more difficult than she anticipated.

  “Does Lady Briana also intend to go after the Necroseti?”

  Evren tried to conceal his surprise at Killian’s question. How could he have known?

  A wry grin twisted the blacksmith’s lips. “To clear a garden, one has to pluck weeds out by the root, not just the stem. Many of the Gatherers were once Necroseti, though the Keeper’s Priests have tried to cover up this fact. I have little doubt the Gatherers still have eyes and ears within the Hall of the Beyond. And, the enmity between Arch-Guardian Suroth and the Keeper’s Council was known by all. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Councilor Madani and his ilk found some way to manipulate the Gatherers to eliminating their rival.”

  Evren tucked that nugget away. He might be able to use that to gain Lady Briana’s trust—if he was going to work with the Dhukari, he wanted to have as much leverage in the bargain as possible.

  “We struck a deal once, but with the Arch-Guardian’s passing, it seems we must renegotiate.” Killian reached down and adjusted the metal rod that ran along the inside of his brace. “You still want the Blade, and it’s not a stretch to assume you’ll want my help in your hunt for the Gatherers.”

  Evren nodded. “The question is, now that Suroth is gone, what do you want in return? I doubt Lady Briana will have much access to the Keeper’s Council.”

  “True,” Killian said and inclined his head. “For now, let us simply agree that you bring to me anything and everything you uncover in your hunt for the Gatherers. I have little doubt that you will find a great deal of information—not only on the cult itself, but those aiding them, as well as the extent of their reach in Shalandra.”

  “Information that you’ll sell or exchange for your benefit.”

  “Of course.” Killian smiled. “Who knows, you may even be fortunate enough to uncover something truly useful that, in the right hands, can give you leverage over the Necroseti.”

  Evren returned the smile. He had little doubt who Killian referred to when he spoke of “the right hands”.

  “Do we have an accord?” Killian held out a huge hand.

  Without hesitation, Evren shook. The blacksmith would prove an invaluable source of information in their hunt for the Gatherers.

  “So be it.” Killian stood. “I’ll put out feelers and get my Mumblers searching for the Gatherers. You know how to contact me should you need anything or have anything to relay.”

  Evren nodded. “I do.” He made to leave, but stopped. “Why did you summon me?” The messenger had made it sound ominous.

  Killian gave him a wry smile. “One of my Mumblers spotted you creeping around the Slave’s Tier. The Ybrazhe rule that and the Cultivator’s Tier. Given that your business in Shalandra was on the Keeper’s Tier, I found your presence there curious.” He made the word sound more dangerous and troubling than mere curiosity. “Shame to hear about Snarth. I’ll have to watch my back more closely. Best you do the same, young Evren.”

  “Always.” Evren returned the grin, then clambered over the wall and into the alley. Across from the rear of the smithy, someone had painted “Child of Gold” in large red letters.

  Even up here, eh? Until now, he’d only seen strange words on the Slave’s and Cultivator’s Tier.

  Evren dismissed the graffiti and hurried down the alley, back toward the road that would lead him back to the Artificer’s Courseway. The meeting with Killian had gone better than expected, but worse than he’d hoped. At least he knew Killian was reasonable as long as he had something to offer—sadly, that fact didn’t get him any closer to completing his true mission of stealing the Blade of Hallar.

  Looks like I’ll have to sort it myself, as always. Damned Gatherers made that a whole lot harder, though.

  The sun had dipped behind Alshuruq’s western cliff while he was talking with Killian, and daylight was fading quickly. Darkness would be for Evren to find a way to sneak around the Keeper’s Tier, but getting into the palace would prove far more difficult. Security would be on high alert since—

  A shadow detached from the darkness of a nearby alley in front of him. Evren tensed, fists coming up to a fighting stance, but suddenly strong arms seized him from behind and dragged him backward into an adjoining alley.

  He struggled against the grip of his captors but stopped as he caught sight of a familiar figure bathed in the last threads of daylight. It was the same rough-looking thug he’d spotted in the attic room with Snarth.

  “Found you, little rat.” Steel glinted in the fading illumination as Annat raised a knife to Evren’s throat. “Nowhere to scurry off to now!”

  Chapter Ten

  Every muscle in Issa’s body ached from the pounding she’d taken in the training yard—Tannard hadn’t taken it easy on her, and the other Blades had followed his lead—but she couldn’t let the Indomitables in her patrol see the pain. She held her head high and kept her gait steady as she led the way westward along the Path of Chains.

  As part of their Blades’ education, she, Etai, and Kellas had each been assigned to lead their own company of Indomitable trainees. Tannard, of course, had given her the Slave’s Tier, the most dangerous of Shalandra’s five levels. Dangerous not only because of the Ybrazhe Syndicate thugs, thieves, and killers; Issa had lived on the Cultivator’s Tier long enough to know how deep the resentment against the Indomitables truly ran among the lower castes.

  “Keep the formation tight,” Issa barked to her ten-guard patrol. All were trainees, though most had a few months of ex
perience and training. Enyera, Rilith, Nysin, Viddan, and the others that had fought beside her in the Blades’ training yard had been assigned to her, along with four others that had stood in Kellas’ ranks. Now, they all had one goal: get through this patrol alive.

  The Ybrazhe Syndicate ruled the two lowest levels, and many of the Mahjuri and Kabili—those not weakened by hunger, thirst, or illness—glared at them, openly hostile. A few, with the shifty eyes of thieves or the thick necks and broad shoulders of thugs, scurried away at their approach, but Issa’s instructions had been clear. Unless she saw a crime being committed in front of her, she was to remain in formation and keep a steady pace. She and her trainees were to be a presence, nothing more.

  “Trouble ahead,” growled Nysin from right behind her. He was a Neophyte, a low-ranked officer among the Indomitables, and had been assigned to lead the ten-man patrol behind her.

  Issa nodded. “I see it.”

  A crowd had gathered on the southern side of the Path of Chains, nearly blocking the entire avenue. The throng formed a half-circle around a pair of upturned wooden crates. The man stood atop the improvised platform had the noble bearing of a Dhukari, yet he wore no headband, his face free of any markings of the upper caste. His robes were simple, crude canvas, the sort common among the Kabili and Mahjuri. Yet even from this distance, Issa could see the light shining in his eyes, hear the conviction ringing in his deep, rich voice.

  “The Long Keeper comes for all.” His words echoed above the crowd with an unmistakable sincerity. “We must prepare to greet him unencumbered by earthly riches and possessions. For these things are unnecessary trappings that bind us to our flesh, to this world. But when we are free of this life, free of the burdens that hold us down, then we will be truly free to join the Long Keeper in the Sleepless Lands. Only once we have forsaken all will we have the peace that comes from throwing ourselves into the Long Keeper’s hands. When the Final Destruction comes, how will you greet our god? With the closed fists of greed, or the open arms of surrender?”

  “Clear the road!” Issa shouted as their patrol approached the crowd. “Make way!”

  Hundreds of faces turned toward her. Fists clenched and anger darkened lean, hungry faces. Bare-headed Kabili slaves and Mahjuri outcasts with their black rope or canvas headbands bristled in defiance of the Indomitables.

  Issa’s gut tightened at the wall of fury directed at her. They couldn’t know she was an Earaqi, barely above their pitiful lot in life. All they saw was her black armor and two-handed sword, as well as the Indomitable patrol at her back. An immediate hostile tension filled the air, thick enough to cut with a knife.

  Movement rippled among the crowd, and for a moment, Issa worried that the throng might respond with anger or violence. She’d heard about the protest the previous day. What had started out as the Indomitables doing their job of keeping the streets clear—just as she was trying to do now—had turned ugly, savage. She held her breath, every muscle in her body tensed in expectation of an assault.

  “Peace!” cried the man on the wooden platform. “The Long Keeper’s peace and joy forever more.”

  Relief surged through Issa as the crowd parted and made way for the patrol to pass. The gap was barely wide enough for them to march through two-abreast, and Issa could almost feel the seething animosity emanating from the people facing her. Yet, through resentment shone in the eyes of those that faced her, no one spoke or made a move.

  It took all her self-control not to quicken her pace, but she let out a long breath as the last of her patrol passed through the throng unmolested.

  “Damned Child of Gold!” Nysin growled. “Stirring up trouble and making things worse for us.”

  Issa’s brow furrowed. “That man talking to the crowd?” she asked without looking over her shoulder or slowing her pace. She’d never heard the name “Child of Gold”, though she had seen it and other similar words painted onto walls in the Slave’s and Cultivator’s Tiers.

  “His real name’s Aterallis, and he was the son of some high-ranked Necroseti, until he decided to abandon his position of power, his wealth, and his caste.” Nysin’s voice held a generous heaping of scorn. “Now, he lives among the Kabili and Mahjuri, believing himself one of us…of them,” he corrected. He, like all the others accepted into the Indomitables, had been elevated to the Alqati warrior caste, as proclaimed by the blue stripe across the forehead of his flat-topped, spike-rimmed helmet.

  “It didn’t sound like he was stirring up trouble,” Issa said. “If anything, his words seemed to calm the crowd.”

  “Sure, his words are one thing, but what he represents to the people is another.” Nysin snorted. “Too many Shalandrans believe that damned Prophecy of the Final Destruction.”

  “Prophecy?” This was the first Issa had heard of it.

  “You don’t know about Hallar’s prophecy?” The question came from Rilith, two rows back.

  “No.” Issa shook her head.

  “No one outside the Keeper’s Priests knows the full thing,” Nysin said, “but somehow, word spread about how some ‘child of secrets, child of spirits, child of gold’ was going to bring about Hallar’s Final Destruction.”

  “And what does this Aterallis have to do with that?” Issa asked.

  “Because the people are calling him those things.” Nysin snorted. “Child of Gold, because he’s a member of the Dhukari. Child of Spirits, because they say he speaks to the Long Keeper and the Long Keeper answers back. Child of Secrets, because no one knows what made him do what he’s doing.”

  Issa snorted. “That’s a bit of a stretch!”

  “It certainly is.” Nysin’s voice dripped derision. “But that hasn’t stopped people from whispering that he’s the one foretold by the prophecy. A lot of Shalandrans, especially the Mahjuri and Kabili, are flocking to him, proclaiming him Hallar Reborn, Hallar’s heir, even the voice of the Long Keeper. It doesn’t matter if he really is this person prophesized about—all that matters is that the people believe he is.”

  “The Mahjuri are so badly off that anything, even the promise of a better afterlife in the Sleepless Lands, offers them hope,” Rilith added. “Too many of us had nothing to live for. It’s why we joined the Indomitables. Anything is better than dying of hunger, thirst, or the Azure Rot.”

  The explanation made sense. Issa herself had clung to the dreams of becoming a Dhukari after her acceptance into the Blades. She and her grandparents would have a better life among the highest-ranked caste, away from the labor of the Earaqi. That hope had driven her to train as hard as she could.

  But what if her dreams hadn’t paid off? What about all the Mahjuri, Kabili, and Earaqi that had failed to claim a sword in the Crucible, or that hadn’t been accepted into the Indomitables? With no hope of escape from the life they’d been condemned to by merit of their birth, they had nothing to look forward to in this life. Hoping that things would get better in the next life was all many had to cling to.

  “I fail to see how giving people hope is a bad thing,” Issa said.

  “Not bad, dangerous,” Nysin responded. “When people give him power, call him Hallar Reborn or Hallar’s heir, they start to see him as a savior, a messiah, someone that will lift them out of the misery of their lives. That gives him a dangerous amount of power, power that only the Pharus and the servants of the Long Keeper should possess.”

  Issa could understand that—she’d spent every day of her training in the Keeper’s Blades learning about the great generals and leaders of Shalandran history. The one thing they’d all had in common was that their armies and followers believed in them, many willing to follow their commands in defiance of logic. Some of the greatest military battles had been won by a dynamic commander that convinced his men to face impossible odds. Invictus Dyrkton had told her, “Never overestimate the power of a charismatic leader. A man who can convince others to follow his commands is mightier than the strongest warrior.”

  If Aterallis did truly have sway over the
people of the Slave’s Tier, he was as dangerous as Nysin believed. She’d make sure to emphasize it in her report to Sentinel Imale, the officer responsible for all the trainees assigned to her patrol. And to Hykos, Tannard, and any others of her commanders in the Blades.

  Night washed the color from the golden sandstone buildings of the Slave’s Tier, leaving only dark grey shapes barely illuminated by the few torches and braziers that burned along the Way of Chains. The few people visible along the streets appeared even more wretched in the dim light. Emaciated men, women, and children lay in the dust of the streets, among the rubble of collapsed stone houses, or the debris littering the alleys.

  The dead lay among the living—the only way Issa could tell them apart was by searching for the blue spots dotting their skin. The Azure Rot, a blight that had pervaded the Slave’s Tier for nearly three months now, caused the skin to crack and weep pus. It took days to weaken its victims until, too starved and exhausted to move, they simply succumbed to the bleeding. Blue spots deepened to a dark purple then black as the Rot killed its victims.

  Issa’s gut tightened as they approached the Lower Wellspring, the only source of fresh water on the Slave’s Tier. The Wellspring stood next to the Hall of Bounty, the warehouse where all of the food rationed to the Kabili and Mahjuri was stored. Sentinel Imale had warned her in no uncertain terms that this was the most fractious section of the Slave’s Tier. Every man, woman, and child on the lowest level had to come here to receive their daily allotment of food and water. Dozens of arguments, scuffles, and even full-fledged fights broke out every day.

  Sure enough, as Issa had feared, the sound of angry shouts and curses echoed from ahead.

  “Double time!” she called, and broke into a fast march. The clanking of the Indomitables’ armor served as a warning of their approach—hopefully enough of a deterrent to break up whatever fracas lay ahead.

  Torches and lanterns hung in front of the huge wooden Hall of Bounty, with more lighting the way to the small stone structure protecting the Wellspring. A full sixty-man company of Indomitables stood divided between the two structures. Twin lines of starving-looking men and women formed in front of the Wellspring and Hall of Bounty, carrying cracked buckets and threadbare sacks in hope of procuring food or drink. Even at this late hour, the lines numbered more than two hundred souls desperate to eat or drink.