Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  A sense of urgency thrummed within him. Time was running out—for Killian and them both. Every second’s delay could give the Ybrazhe a chance to kill the blacksmith. If they didn’t get to the palace in time, Angrak would escape justice.

  He spotted two more watchers but trusted that Etai and her Indomitables could deal with them before they raised alarm. Once he passed them, the way to the mill’s front was clear. The Ybrazhe seemed to want to maintain an innocuous appearance on the outside. However, Evren couldn’t help worrying about what he’d find inside the mill.

  Evren stalked closer and slipped to the south side of the building, to the still-open chute he’d looked in the previous night. There was no mistaking the figures of Annat and a handful of his thugs—Evren counted fifteen within sight, but there could be more in the shadows.

  And Killian, tied to the same millstone where Serias had been tortured the previous night. Dried blood caked his face and upper lip, but he gritted his teeth against a cry as two thugs slowly crushed his hands beneath the millwheel.

  Evren’s gut clenched as Annat drew a knife and pressed it to Killian’s throat. He didn’t waste time worrying about whether or not the Syndicate thug would follow through on his threat. He leapt to his feet, crossed to the door of the mill, and kicked it open.

  “Indomitables!” His shout echoed in the mill. “Two patrols, right behind me.”

  Again, the thugs in the room whirled toward him, hands dropping to their weapons. Yet they froze at the sight of him—just one young man, the same one that had pulled the farce on them hours earlier.

  This time, however, Evren didn’t flee. He stood his ground, eyes fixed on the thugs arrayed in front of him. Another ten or twelve bull-necked men hovered in the shadows of the mill, making nearly thirty with the original fifteen.

  “It’s the kid from last night!” shouted one of the thugs.

  Recognition flashed in Annat’s eyes and he turned to Evren, a sneer twisting his lips. “We won’t fall for that again.”

  Evren breathed a silent sigh of relief as the dagger moved away from Killian’s throat. The blacksmith had looked up at the sound of his voice, and a questioning glance filled his eyes.

  “Take him!” Annat snapped. “He’s stupid enough to try the trick twice, he’ll learn what happens when you mess with the Ybrazhe Syndicate.”

  “Trick?” Evren shot the foremost thugs a curious glance. “What trick?”

  “With the Indomitable patrol,” put in one who had particularly dull, thick-looking features. “Last time, you made us think—”

  “Oh, I remember.” A fierce grin split Evren’s face as he drew his jambiya. “This time, though, it’s no trick.”

  That was when Issa burst through the door. Wood splintered beneath the force of Issa’s charge. She barreled into the mill, sword drawn and held at the ready. Anger burned in her eyes as she caught sight of the blacksmith.

  The Keeper’s Blade never slowed her charge. She reached the first Ybrazhe thug and cut the stunned man down with a vicious vertical chop that plowed devastation through his collarbone, ribs, and heart. The man crumpled and slid free of her blade, and she swung for another thug, who had regained his wits fast enough to raise his baton. Her upward slash opened a deep gash in his stomach, chest, and forearm.

  Then the second Blade, Etai, charged through the door and joined the battle. Her black steel blade hewed off a leg, and the thug screamed and fell to the ground, clutching at the crimson fountaining from what had once been his knee. Together, the two black-armored figures carved their way through the nearest thugs, their swords flashing in deadly tandem.

  A roar of rage snapped Evren’s attention back to his own safety. The dim-witted thug charged him, a spike-studded club gripped in his huge fists. His eyes narrowed as he brought the weapon swinging toward Evren’s head.

  Evren flowed to the side, dodging the blow, then struck out with a quick slashing blow that opened the side of the huge thug’s neck. Crimson fountained into the air and the man stumbled, sagged, and fell to the flour-covered floor.

  Another thug charged, this time wielding a short sword with far more proficiency than brute strength. Evren was forced to bring his second jambiya to bear, turning aside the vicious strokes rather than blocking. He couldn’t hope to match the huge man’s strength but he had speed on his side.

  When the thug overextended his next thrust, Evren dragged the jambiya’s curving edge along the man’s forearm. Steel parted flesh with ease, eliciting a scream. A quick uppercut snapped the thug’s jaw shut on his tongue. The man’s screams doubled as a piece of soft flesh fell from his bloodied mouth.

  Movement flashed in the corner of his eye. A fist of iron squeezed Evren’s heart as he caught sight of Annat charging toward Killian, dagger poised to strike the bound blacksmith.

  Evren would never reach Killian in time, but he couldn’t let the man die. They needed the information he had, but it was more than that. He owed the blacksmith for giving him the position in Suroth’s household—because of Killian, he’d come in contact with Briana, Kodyn, Aisha, and Issa. He had allies now, maybe even friends, and the blacksmith had made that happen, albeit indirectly.

  He did the only thing he could: he threw one of his jambiyas. The curved daggers were made for hand-to-hand fighting, but the Hunter had forced him to drill at knife-throwing for hours each week. Evren knew the weight and balance of the twin blades to perfection.

  The jambiya left his right hand the moment before Annat drove his dagger into Killian’s throat. The blade spun through the air and buried into the Syndicate thug’s side. Annat cried out and fell to the side as if punched by an invisible hand. The blade fell from his hands to clatter to the floor beside Killian.

  “Evren, behind you!”

  The blacksmith’s warning shout snapped Evren around, just in time to raise his left-handed dagger and block a club strike. The impact jarred his arm to the shoulder and wrenched his wrist, but he managed to deflect the blow. His right fist came around in a perfect hook that caught the thug in the side of the head. The man sagged to one knee, stunned, and Evren finished him with a pommel strike to the temple.

  Whirling, he searched the miller’s shop for Annat. The man had staggered to his feet, one hand clutching the dagger buried to its hilt in his side. Blood dripped from the wound in his side and stained his tunic and shendyt, yet he seemed unwilling to accept that he was dying. He drew another blade from within his clothing and raised it to strike at Killian.

  The blow never landed. Evren leapt toward the wounded thug and drove his left-handed blade into the thug’s stomach. Annat fell back with a cry, but Evren seized the hilts of both jambiya in a firm grip. The two daggers pulled free of the thug’s body with a quick sucking sound as Annat collapsed. He lay on the ground, groaning, clutching his gut, blood tingeing his mouth and spilling from his lips. With a final hate-filled glare for Evren, his head fell slack to the flour-covered floor. He lay still in an ever-widening pool of crimson amidst a sea of white flour.

  Evren stared down at the thug. He felt no pity, no remorse at the man’s death. Annat had tortured Serias and Killian; doubtless he would have killed both had Evren not intervened. He had been the one to alert the Gatherers to the location of Briana’s house.

  If anyone in this room deserved death, it was most definitely Annat.

  Evren flicked the blood from his daggers and wiped the crimson from his face. Two long steps took him to Killian’s side, where he crouched, blades held at the ready, defiance burning like an inferno in his stomach.

  Come and get it, you bastards!

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Relief washed through Issa as she saw Evren’s thrown dagger punch into the Syndicate thug’s side. The sight of the bloody blacksmith had driven her into a rage—she owed everything to Killian. The blacksmith had spent years training her to fight, even against her grandparents’ wishes. He was the one who had prepared her for the Crucible. She was only a Keeper’s Blade because
of the blacksmith.

  But that wasn’t all. Throughout the years, Killian had been kind to her. A stern teacher and relentless instructor, yet never cruel like Tannard. He pushed her to her limits without demanding the impossible. He’d never tried to convince her to join his Mumblers or pressured her into helping him collect his secrets. He had seen something in her and fostered it. She owed so much of who she was as a person and a warrior to the blacksmith with his heavy beard and devious mind.

  An Ybrazhe thug charged her, sword driving toward her chest. Her armor could take the blow but she never let it land—Killian had taught her better than that. Her flammard swung around in a neat arc, knocking the man’s sword aside with the strong swing of the blade while opening his throat with the tip. She lifted a boot and drove it into the man’s chest, sending him stumbling into the thug behind him. A quick thrust finished the fallen man, and Etai brought down the next thug to charge.

  She risked a glance at Killian and found the young man, Evren, crouched over him protectively. Good. He’ll be safe.

  Evren was no warrior or soldier—he fought as dirty as any Earaqi, though his skills at bare-handed combat rivaled even Hykos’—but he could more than hold his own. Though Issa didn’t know the connection between the two, one look at Evren told her he’d fight to protect the blacksmith.

  Issa turned her attention back to her enemies, her sword swinging to cut through a thug’s upraised club and exposed throat. All around her, the sound of clashing steel, piercing cries of agony, and furious shouts echoed in the mill. Yet between Etai, Kodyn, Evren, and the Indomitables, they had all but routed the Syndicate. Heavy muscle and brute strength failed to protect the thugs from heavy steel swords. Twenty of the Ybrazhe had already fallen beneath the onslaught. A few had tried to flee out a back exit, only to find themselves confronted by the three Indomitables Issa had set there against just such a possibility. Black-armored soldiers cut the cowards down before they recovered from their shock.

  The battle within the mill ended in a matter of minutes. The Syndicate thugs refused to surrender, throwing themselves against the Indomitables with furious roars and wild swings of their clubs, knives, and short swords. One managed to slither through the window and escape, but the rest fell where they fought. Death before betrayal—it seemed the Syndicate and the Gatherers had more in common than anyone expected.

  Silence hung thick, tense, an eerie absence of life after the chaos of battle. The stillness shattered a second later as the groans of wounded men echoed in the mill.

  Issa studied the battlefield as if through the eyes of a stranger. Eighteen of the original twenty Indomitables still stood, though most bore wounds. One black-armored figure lay silent and still, eyes wide, blood pooling from a gash in his throat. Another sat slumped against the millwheel, his lips tinged with red spittle, a dagger still embedded between the underarm joints of his armor. Two of his comrades knelt beside him, gripping his hands as he struggled in vain to cling to life.

  A grunt from her right brought Issa’s head snapping around. Etai struggled to tear her flammard free of her last kill, her blade likely embedded in bone. Beyond her, Kodyn crouched over another fallen thug, wiping his straight long sword clean on the dead man’s clothes.

  “Let’s get you out of this.” Evren’s voice came from the huge millwheel. Issa dashed around the stone-and-wood structure in time to see the young thief cutting Killian’s bonds. The blacksmith gave a loud groan as Issa heaved at the tie beam, lifting the crushing pressure off his hands.

  “You took your time getting here,” Killian told Evren. “Hope I didn’t disturb anything important you were doing.” He winced as he flexed his fingers. None appeared broken, but the flesh had been skinned off by the millstone and dark purple bruises had begun to form around the joints.

  Evren’s face creased into a scowl. “I take it that’s your version of ‘thank you’. So you’re welcome.” He helped Killian to stand, eliciting a wince and hiss from the blacksmith.

  Killian opened his mouth to speak, but cut off as he caught sight of Issa. “Issa, is that you?”

  Issa swallowed the anxiety roiling in her stomach. “Yes. Figured I’d come pay you that visit I promised I would. Seems like I interrupted something important. Sorry about that.” She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The blacksmith would survive—that was all that mattered.

  Killian chuckled, which led to another groan. “They were just about to spill all the Ybrazhe’s secrets. I had them right where I wanted them.”

  “Sure.” Issa snorted. Too long had passed since she last saw the blacksmith—the day of her acceptance into the Keeper’s Blades. It felt damned good to see him again. She hadn’t realized how much she missed his wry humor and strong presence until now.

  Confusion twisted Evren’s face. “You know each other?”

  Killian gave a dismissive wave. “Long story.”

  “For another time,” Issa finished. “Right now, Killian, Evren tells me that you’ve got proof we need to deal with Councilor Angrak. We need to get it to Lady Callista now.”

  Killian’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Lady Callista, eh?” He shot a questioning glance at Etai and the Indomitables.

  Issa shook her head. “They’re just here to help us get you out. But these two—” She indicated Evren and Kodyn. “—are proving surprisingly adept. Almost as if you trained them yourself.”

  Evren’s eyes widened a fraction, and Issa could see the questions piling up on his tongue.

  She didn’t give him time to speak. “I need that shalanite sample, Killian. And the deed proving Angrak owned the Ybrazhe’s hideout. Where can I find it?”

  The blacksmith’s brows furrowed. After a moment, he let out a long sigh. “My strongbox. You remember how to open it?”

  Issa nodded, a hopeful grin splitting her face. “Thank you!” She whirled to Etai. “You can sort this mess out?”

  “Go!” Etai told her.

  “I’ll tell you everything later, I promise.”

  “I trust you,” Etai replied. “Now get to Lady Callista before it’s too late!”

  “I’m staying,” Evren said. “Can’t leave this old man alone for one second else he gets himself in trouble.”

  Killian’s answer was colorful, littered with anatomical impossibilities, and salty enough to taint an ocean.

  Kodyn slipped up beside her. “I’m with you.” He tapped his chest. “With those last pieces, we’ve got everything we need.”

  “Let’s go!” Without hesitation, Issa turned and raced out of the mill. Kodyn pounded along behind her, his long legs matching her speed.

  Issa led them straight toward Killian’s smithy. She felt a pang of homesickness as she entered the dark, soot-covered forge. It was as hot and humid as she remembered, with that same stink of burning metal and singed hair. For five years, she’d spent every free moment training in the yard or pounding glowing steel on the anvil in the center of the smithy. She’d worked the bellows until her arms ached and sweat soaked her tunic, and she’d quenched countless crude swords and daggers in the barrel of fresh water Killian had made her haul from the Lower Wellspring.

  This place had been like her second home—she often felt more at ease in the forge than at home. Here, she hadn’t needed to hide her secrets from Killian as she had with her grandparents.

  She shoved the sentiments down deep. Focus, Issa! You’re running out of time. They’d lost nearly half an hour rescuing Killian—had it been anyone else, she wouldn’t have wasted the time. If we don’t get this to the Keeper’s Tier now, it’ll be too late.

  Issa shoved aside the soot-stained tools and bits of scrap metal that littered the darkest corner of the room. The mess was simply a ruse, a mask to disguise the truth of what lay beneath. She grasped the last remaining bar of pig iron and heaved on it. The handle pulled up the three planks covering that section of the floor, revealing a sizeable steel strongbox beneath.

  Glancing over her sho
ulder, she found Kodyn staring down at the safe with a wry expression. Issa shielded the locking mechanism from his view with her body until the lock clicked and the door sprang open.

  Triumph surged within her as she caught sight of a small glass jar containing a pile of black dust and stone shards. Beside it lay a rolled up parchment. She snatched both up, tucked the jar into her armor, and opened the scroll. “Property Deed” was emblazoned across the top in bold words, and Councilor Angrak’s name leapt off the page as she scanned its contents. With a grin, she sealed the strongbox, replaced the wood and camouflaging mess. Kodyn pitched in and within seconds, they had the forge back to its usual messy-looking state.

  Issa stood and nodded her thanks. “We’ve got to get to the palace now!”

  Mischief twinkled in the young man’s eyes as he pulled out a gold-and-green headband. “Race you there.”

  Issa rushed out the door, Kodyn on her heels. A glance at the sky told her it was well past the tenth hour of the morning. The journey to the Keeper’s Tier would take the better part of an hour. It would be close.

  Yet she’d made that trek just the previous day. It would be grueling, a punishing pace that had nearly killed her, but now she had a reason to run it. Instead of Tannard’s cruel disdain, victory awaited her at the end. Lady Callista was counting on her, Briana and her friends as well. She’d push until she dropped if it meant completing her mission.

  Hope lent wings to her feet as she and Kodyn raced down Smith’s Alley, then turned east along the Artificer’s Courseway. People cleared out of the way as they saw her pounding toward them. Clad in the black armor of a Keeper’s Blade and running at full speed, she was as terrifying as a charging horse.

  Her legs ached and her lungs burned by the time she reached Death Row. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to keep moving, keep running up the steep incline. Kodyn matched her pace with little apparent difficulty, his armor and weapons far lighter than hers. A part of her felt pleased to see the sweat streaming down his face, to hear the steady, measured rhythm of his breathing.