Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Evren’s mind raced as he tried to come up with a way to free Serias from the Ybrazhe thugs torturing him. He risked a glance into the miller’s shop and stifled a curse.

  No bloody chance I can fight my way through that many thugs.

  The Hunter of Voramis would race, swords swinging, but the assassin could heal from wounds that would kill any normal man. Evren didn’t have any special healing ability—any special abilities at all, save for a stubborn refusal to quit.

  He couldn’t fight, so he had to find another way to deal with the thugs. An idea sprang to his mind: there’s only one thing the Ybrazhe is truly afraid of.

  Without hesitation, he acted on the idea. He slipped away from the window and returned to Miller’s Alley. He drew in a deep breath. This is bloody insane! And yet, a defiant grin split his face. If training with the Hunter has taught me one thing, it’s that insane has a damned good chance of working. Provided it doesn’t kill me, of course.

  Before he could reconsider, he raced down the street—straight toward the mill.

  He burst through the door. “Indomitables!” he shouted. “Patrol coming this way!”

  Eight pairs of eyes turned toward him, eight heavy, scarred hands reaching for clubs, swords, and daggers. Evren didn’t give them time to react. “They’ll be here in seconds!” With that, he turned and tore out of the door, leaving the stunned Ybrazhe behind him.

  Once outside, he ducked back into the shadows of the miller’s shop and darted toward the open chute. He reached it just in time to see the Ybrazhe thugs racing out of the mill’s front door and onto the street, leaving only Annat standing guard over Serias. The thug actually reached for a canvas sack and draped it over the bound youth, as if trying to conceal the boy and make it appear as if all was normal within the mill.

  Evren stifled a grin. Bloody insane, indeed! During his years on the streets of Vothmot, he’d learned to run at the first hint of the Wardens of the Mount. Better risk looking foolish than getting pinched. The Syndicate thugs would learn the truth of his ruse soon enough and return, but he’d bought himself a minute or two.

  Slipping one jambiya between his teeth, Evren slithered through the open chute and dropped to the stone floor without a sound. He crept up behind Annat silent as a wraith and let the dagger fall into his hand.

  “Didn’t you hear?” he asked in a conversational tone. “There’s an Indomitable patrol on the way here now.”

  Annat whirled, eyes narrowed in suspicion. His mouth opened just in time to meet Evren’s swinging fist. The punch was perfect—Evren’s strength backed by the weight of the dagger in his hand. His blow connected with Annat’s jaw, the diamond-shaped pommel of his jambiya carving a chunk out of the man’s cheek. Annat fell like a sack of dropped horse apples.

  Evren dodged the thug’s falling body and leapt toward the millwheel. Ripping aside the canvas, he sawed at the ropes holding Serias bound. The sharp curved blade of his jambiya sliced through the hemp strands with ease. Serias sagged, groaning, his eyes closed.

  “Hey!” Evren shook the boy. “It’s me, Evren. We need to get out of here, now!”

  “Evren?” Serias mumbled.

  Evren recognized the signs of shock—caused by the repeated blows to his head and the agony of the stone crushing his fingers. One glance at the boy’s hands told him the bones hadn’t quite been pulverized, simply fractured. They had already begun to swell and would need a physicker’s attention, but he ought to retain use of his fingers.

  “Come on, they’ll return at any minute.” He helped Serias to stand, half-carrying the boy and hauling him toward the grain chute. “You can do it.”

  After a failed attempt, he simply lifted the smaller boy and shoved him feet-first through the chute. Serias fell with a groan, and Evren scrambled out after him.

  “Where can we go that’s safe?” Evren hissed. “Where you can hide?”

  “Killian…” The boy mumbled.

  “Yes, where’s Killian?” Evren’s mind raced. “We need to warn him of what happened.”

  “Killian…Smokehouse.”

  Evren’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  Serias nodded. “Hiding place…”

  “Damn!” Evren breathed. “Bloody good one, if you ask me.” The Smokehouse, an exclusive opium den that catered only to upper-caste Shalandrans, was the last place he’d expect to find a reputable Intaji like Killian. Then again, the real Killian wasn’t exactly an upstanding member of society.

  “Come on.” He clutched the boy tighter and helped him stagger down the street. “We need to get you off the streets before—”

  Angry shouts from behind him cut off his words. He dove into the shadows of a nearby alley, dragging Serias behind him. The boy managed not to cry out, though he grunted as his hands struck the hard ground.

  “Where are they?” Annat’s voice rang out shrill in the night. “Find them right bloody now! They’re just Keeper-damned kids!”

  Evren grinned. Surprise, you bastard. He’d gotten Serias out, but now he had to get them both to safety. The Ybrazhe would be flooding out of the mill into the streets of the Artisan’s Tier in seconds. Eight thugs, doubtless with more nearby for back-up. He’d never get out of there with the injured Serias slowing him down.

  “Stay here!” he hissed at the boy. “Keep silent and still and they’ll never find you.”

  Serias clutched at him. “Don’t…go…”

  “I’ve got to warn Killian,” Evren said. “But I’ll make sure to send one of the Mumblers to help you.”

  The boy’s faint call echoed behind him, but Evren ignored it as he slipped out of the shadows and into the street. Though guilt nagged at him for leaving Serias there in his condition, he knew he had to get to Killian. Once he’d warned the blacksmith, he could get back to the others to warn them about the “idiots in the tomb”—Hallar’s Warriors, whoever they were.

  The Ybrazhe thugs might be effective at cracking heads, but the heavily-muscled men seemed far less competent when it came to finding clever thieves. Evren dodged the first two-man search party by scrambling into the shadows between two buildings. He slithered out into the alley that ran behind the houses, and raced off westward.

  I’ve just got to get past their searchers and I can go warn Killian. His mind raced as he ran. The blacksmith needed to know what the Ybrazhe was doing to his Mumblers, and that they were hunting him.

  As he rounded a corner to rejoin the small back road that ran parallel to the northern cliff face, a dark figure leapt out of the shadows directly in front of him. “Got you!” Two huge hands clamped down on Evren’s arms. “Dodgy little bastard, aren’t y—”

  Evren did the only thing he could: he drove his head into the man’s face. Sparks whirled in his vision and pain raced through his skull, but the thug fell back with a cry. The moment the man’s hand released him, Evren spun and struck out with a wild punch that cracked into the man’s jaw, hard enough to snap his open mouth shut with a loud clack. Another blow, this one a more controlled jab to the bridge of the nose, set the man reeling. Tears streamed down the man’s eyes, blurring his vision long enough for Evren to bring his knee around and across, right into the thug’s groin.

  “Urgghle.” A pitiful sound from such a large man. The thug’s knees sagged, and Evren finished him off with a pommel strike to his temple. He was stumbling away before the thug’s body hit the street.

  His skull throbbed with every step, but slowly the dancing stars faded and Evren could see once more. Slowly, he gained speed and raced deeper into the darkness of the Artisan’s Tier, westward in the direction of the Smokehouse. The opium den stood a short distance to the northwest of Commerce Square, tucked away from the Artificer’s Courseway in order to offer its clients a modicum of discretion.

  A throbbing ache settled into Evren’s skull, a stern chastisement for his folly. He’d learned early in his years as a Lectern apprentice that only idiots used their heads—done wron
g, it could knock you out faster than it incapacitated your foe. The new, sharp pain in the crown of his head added to the dull pounding resulting from the minor concussion he’d sustained two days earlier.

  Yet he couldn’t afford to slow, much less stop. He was running out of time to get word to Killian that the Ybrazhe was hunting him, then warn his new comrades about the threat of Hallar’s Warriors.

  He scanned every shadow as he ran, ducking into darkened alleys and racing down side streets to shake anyone tailing him. His heart hammered in time with his flying feet, and he could almost measure the passing seconds according to the pounding behind his eyes.

  Hope surged within him as he caught sight of the Smokehouse, a squat single-story building with no visible decoration or signage. It looked like any other decaying structure in Shalandra, yet one look at the solid front door told Evren that appearances were very deceiving in this instance.

  He raced toward the building and pounded on the heavy door. “Killian, it’s Evren!” He knew that people in the surrounding homes and buildings would hear, but at that moment it didn’t matter. He had to warn the blacksmith of the danger, so he kept right on pounding. “Open up!”

  A thunk sounded as a deadbolt was shot, accompanied by the rattle of two chain locks and the click of a latch disengaged. The heavy door swung open on silent hinges and a familiar face peered out. “Evren?” Killian’s brow furrowed. “What in the bloody hell are you doing here?”

  “Coming to warn you that the Ybrazhe’s after you.” Evren struggled to catch his breath; the sprint across the Artisan’s Tier had stolen his wind. “They had Serias—”

  “What?” Killian tore open the door and his bushy eyebrows snapped together in a glowering glare. “Where do they have him? Tell me, and I’ll march over there and rip their heads off with my bare hands.”

  By the inferno burning in his eyes, Evren didn’t doubt Killian could or would.

  “No need,” he said. “I freed Serias, then raced over here as quickly as I could.”

  “Is that how you found me?” Killian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Evren nodded. “Serias told me. He said—”

  Killian seized his collar. “Did he tell them, too?”

  Evren spun, and his heart sank as his eyes fell on a familiar figure striding down the street toward him.

  “Well, well, well!” Annat’s face creased into a fierce grin. “If it isn’t the famous blacksmith himself? We spent more than an hour trying to torture your location out of your boy. Lucky for us, this one solved that little problem for us.”

  Seven more thugs raced down the street behind Annat. Five carried drawn swords, daggers, and even one spike-studded clubs. The other two, however, carried loaded crossbows, which they held leveled at Evren and Killian.

  Annat glared at Evren, a hand to his bleeding cheek. “Almost makes me willing to forgive you for that sucker punch, boy. Instead, I’ll just kill you quick, rather than taking my time as I intended to. Consider it a thank-you for making my night a whole lot better.”

  Evren’s heart sank, and his cheeks burned with shame as he realized the truth. They weren’t asking Serias about Killian’s book. They wanted Killian himself. And I led them right to him.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Despite his worry for Aisha, Kodyn had to trust that the Ghandian would find her way back to Briana’s. Right now, we’ve got to focus on getting this evidence to Lady Callista as soon as possible.

  He shot a glance at Hykos, who strode along at a brisk march beside him. He almost asked the Archateros to take the evidence to the palace, but stopped himself. Hykos had already come close to deserting his post just helping them in the Coin Counter’s Temple—no way would the Blade leave them, even for something as important as this.

  That means I’ve got to deliver it myself, Kodyn thought. Either that, or wait until Issa returns, whenever that will be.

  He chafed at the delay; the sooner they got the evidence into Lady Callista’s hands, the sooner they’d have vengeance against the Keeper’s Council for the role they played in Suroth’s death. But right now, with everything that had happened with the Gatherers and Ybrazhe, Kodyn had to be cautious. They’d all come far too close to dying too many times already.

  Instincts honed over years as a street-wise thief screamed in the back of his mind. Instantly he was on the alert, every sense engaged. He knew the alleys and lanes around Briana’s house, knew the sounds, smells, even sensations. An experienced thief could feel things, a sort of sixth sense developed as a result of constant wariness and assessment of his surroundings. Right now, Kodyn’s experience told him that something in the street felt off. Like a tavern gone dead still in expectation of a fight between two scowling brutes, as if everything was waiting for the spark to light the match.

  Then he saw them: dark figures, easily two dozen of them, slipping through the back alleys. Moonlight shone on bared steel. They moved quietly, caution in their step, as if trying to avoid detection until they struck. Their intended target was plain. They were going to attack Briana’s house.

  “Gatherers!” The shout tore from his lips, shattering the silence of the night.

  Hooded figures turned toward him, dozens of eyes fixed on him and Hykos. For a single instant, the tableau remained frozen, surreal as an oil painting rather than real life.

  “Get the Praamian!” The call broke the stillness. The match had been lit.

  Kodyn ripped his sword free of its sheath as ten of the Gatherers turned and charged them. From beside him came the ring of steel on leather, and moonlight shone on Hykos’ huge two-handed blade. The Keeper’s Blade squared his shoulders, braced his feet, and raised the flammard to meet the charge.

  A wordless roar echoed in the alley as Hykos raced forward. His boots pounded against the ground like the rumbling of thunder, yet his armor was eerily silent. Kodyn ran just a step ahead and two paces to the right of the Blade. He knew to keep clear of that huge sword—else risk losing a limb or his head when it started swinging—but he’d be damned if he let Hykos face the Gatherers alone.

  They hit the two foremost cultists at the same time. Hot blood splattered the left side of Kodyn’s face as Hykos’ sword tore through a Gatherer. Kodyn didn’t have time to glance over at the Blade; he was too busy knocking aside a furious thrust of a short sword. He brought his long sword across in a return blow, the tip of the blade ripping into flesh, muscle, and bone. The Gatherer screamed, short sword falling from his now-useless right arm. Kodyn unsheathed one of his many daggers and drove it into the man’s throat. Agonized screams turned to a wet, choking gurgle, and the cultist sagged.

  Tearing the dagger free, Kodyn raced toward the next Gatherer. The man swung two short swords in a vicious scissoring blow that would have opened Kodyn’s throat or taken off his head. Instinct and years spent training with Master Serpent saved Kodyn—he threw himself to the right, blocking the left-handed sword with a desperate parry of his dagger. Hykos saved him, lopping off the man’s arm before he could strike out again. The Gatherer stared numbly at the waving stump of his right elbow. The Blade’s powerful swing of his two-handed sword removed his head a heartbeat later.

  Kodyn shot a grateful nod to the Archateros. Hykos’ expression grew grim, a hard set to his face as he acknowledged Kodyn’s thanks with a salute of his sword and returned to the messy business of killing Gatherers.

  As Hykos’ enormous blade hacked down the next cultist, Kodyn raced toward a second Gatherer. The man had turned to face him, a snarl on his face. He swung and Kodyn raised his sword to block, but instead of the clash of steel on steel, the shattering of glass echoed in the night. Hot oil splashed over Kodyn’s sword blade and immediately caught alight. The cracked remnants of the oil lantern flew to the side as the Gatherer released it and drew his own sword.

  Horror froze Kodyn in place as his eyes fixed on the burning steel in his hand. Suddenly, he no longer stood on the streets of the Artisan’s Tier. He was once again a ch
ild trapped in that attic room, his home consumed by sickly green flames. The heat singed his throat and a terrified scream threatened to burst from his lips. Instinctively, he reached out to Ria, wishing for her strong arms to protect him. Fear gripped his brain and paralyzed his muscles. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think—the glowing flames filled his world.

  “Kodyn!” A familiar cry came from above and ahead of him.

  Ria? She had saved him that night, had dragged him from the burning house.

  Yet the cry hadn’t been Ria’s. Another voice, younger, familiar, echoing with the same terror that held him rooted in place.

  Briana!

  Kodyn’s heart seemed to pause between beats, his mind lost in the swirling mists of his memories. Panic filled him, the confusion and fear of a five-year old watching everything he’d ever known turn to ash before his eyes. Yet he pushed back against the rising tide of dismay.

  He was no longer that scared, trapped child. For more than a decade, he had trained and prepared to ensure he was never that child again. The fire couldn’t consume him.

  A wordless roar burst from his lips as he struggled to break free of the grip on his mind and body. Suddenly, his heart beat once more, his eyes snapped away from the burning blade, and he could move again.

  Just in time to block the Gatherer’s descending blow. He barely managed to raise his burning sword, and his parry was weak. Yet he turned aside the strike and lashed out with his blade. Fire cut a long gash across the Gatherer’s chest, setting fire to his cloak and the ragged armor beneath. The man’s shout of triumph turned to a wild cry as the flames consumed the oil that had splattered his clothing.

  Growling, Kodyn drove his burning sword into the man’s chest. Flesh and fabric sizzled, and Kodyn had to jerk his weapon free to avoid the oil catching his hand alight. Yet when the steel pulled out, only blood edged its blade.

  Kodyn shot a glance toward the sound of the voice—the voice that had saved him, had pulled him from the depths of his fear. The second-story window framed Briana’s pale face. She stared down wide-eyed at the scene of battle, at the men fighting and dying in the streets below. Death had come for her.