Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  “We are all willing to sacrifice our lives!” The man gestured to the crowd. “For the sake of a better Shalandra.”

  “A Shalandra we will never see.” She turned her head toward the crowd. “A Shalandra you won’t live long enough—”

  Her words cut off as the man’s thugs charged her. They had been caught off-guard by the suddenness of her attack, yet now drew clubs and daggers and lashed out at her head. She leapt backward, evading their blows, only to hear the rush of feet from behind. The speaker had drawn a sword and charged her from the rear, intending to cut her down.

  Issa spun, twisting out of the path of his thrust, and drove her open palm into the base of his nose. Fire flared along her side as his strike opened a gash, but cartilage crunched beneath her blow. Blood gushed from the man’s nose and he dropped, hands clapped to his face.

  “—long enough to see!” Issa finished her shout, and whirled on the crowd. “Listen to what he’s telling you!”

  “To take back our power!” came the shout from the crowd.

  “Is power what you truly want?” She dodged a descending club strike and drove her fist into the thug’s gut, doubling him over. She snapped off a kick that knocked the second brute’s dagger wide, right into his companion’s chest. Her next kick cracked into the underside of the man’s chin. His head snapped back and he sagged, hitting the ground with a loud thump.

  Issa rounded on the crowd. “Or are you just sick and tired of being disrespected and brutalized?” She thrust a finger toward the man. “Just as he was doing.”

  Surprise shone in the hundreds of faces before her, yet not all remained silent. “Hallar’s Warriors serve the Earaqi!” someone shouted. “They serve all the people who suffer beneath the rule of cruelty.”

  “How could anyone causing you to take up weapons against others be serving you?” Issa fixed them with a glare. “You, Dessia!” She thrust a finger toward a woman two years older than her. “What do you know about fighting?”

  Dessia, the daughter of one of Savta’s fellow servants, cringed back, color rising to her cheeks.

  “And you, Ellric!” Issa rounded on another young man, one who worked the fields beside her Saba. “Have you ever held a sword?”

  Just then, the door burst open behind her, and more thick-necked thugs spilled into the room. Issa managed to fling aside her cloak and draw her weapons just in time to deflect a vicious club strike aimed at her head. The foremost attacker fell with Issa’s dagger driven into his gut, tearing the weapon from her hand. She lashed out with the short sword—a heavy blade with a vicious edge, effective despite its diminutive length. Her horizontal slash opened the next thug’s arm to the bone and the man fell back with a cry, blood gushing from the severed artery.

  “See them!” Issa shouted and blocked a flurry of blows from the men that rushed her. “They are not Earaqi!”

  Earaqi that trained at the Institutes of the Seven Faces fought with cunning and trickery, not the brute force taught to the Mahjuri.

  A loud roar echoed from behind her as Etai leapt from the crowd, sword drawn. Nysin, Enyera, and more of her trainees followed hot on the Blade’s heels. They clashed with the thugs pouring from the room. Within seconds, all ten of Issa’s Indomitables had joined her in battle. Fifteen brutes clashed with twelve young Blades and Indomitables. The fight ended in seconds.

  Issa whirled toward the crowd. Stunned silence rooted the Earaqi youths in place.

  “Look at them!” she thrust her blade, still dripping blood, at the nearest corpse. “They are no Earaqi, earning their living through the sweat of their brows. They serve the Syndicate, taking from you to enrich themselves, just as they say the Dhukari do. But they are worse!” She swung the bloodied sword around to face the throng. “They would send you to your deaths, facing the Indomitables with nothing more than your anger and a few pathetic weapons.”

  Hesitation cracked the anger and hostility in the faces arrayed before her. Hope sprang to Issa’s breast. I’m getting through to them!

  “And what of your families?” Issa shouted. She singled out a few familiar faces. “Your mother, Trastin. Your two little sisters, Kelves. Your crippled Saba, Rayale. What will happen to them when you are dead and the Ybrazhe claim the Cultivator’s Tier, our home, for themselves? What suffering awaits them?”

  “What do you know of suffering?” came a wrathful cry. “You don’t look hungry or sick like the rest of us!”

  “Some of you know me, but for those who do not, let me tell you my name.” Issa straightened and spread her arms wide. “I am Issa of the Earaqi, chosen of the Long Keeper, granddaughter of Nytano and Aleema. I have run the Commoner’s Way beside you, watched my Saba’s back stoop beneath hard labor in the fields, and suffered hunger and thirst just as you have.”

  “Keeper’s Blade!” Anger flared to life on faces that had been a heartbeat away from finding sense.

  “Traitor!”

  “I am a Keeper’s Blade,” Issa shouted back. “but I am no traitor. I will not stand by and watch my people—you, my fellow Earaqi, and all the Mahjuri and Kabili in the Slave’s Tier—caught up in this. For down this path lies only death.”

  A Mahjuri at the front of the crowd spoke up. “How is death worse than what we already endure? Starvation, thirst, disease, and abuse at the hands of you Indomitables.”

  “Can you truly say that your families would be better off with you dead?” Issa snarled. “Your mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, lovers, friends. How would your deaths make their lives any easier?” She narrowed her eyes at the crowd. “Or would they all wind up suffering because of your actions here, right now?”

  That drove Issa’s point home. They had all witnessed the executions held in Murder Square. Traitors never died alone; the heads of their husbands, wives, children, and loved ones all adorned spikes beside them. The Necroseti had always made clear the consequences for those who raised a hand against the ruling caste.

  She opened her mouth but never got a chance to speak. Roars, shouts, and chanting filled the air outside the warehouse. All eyes turned to face the door.

  The clamor grew louder, until everyone in the warehouse could hear the cries.

  “Death to the Pharus!” raged the crowd. “Bring on the Final Destruction that was foretold!”

  Torches and lanterns shone in the darkness beyond. Hundreds of young Earaqi men and women marched along, their voices raised in the angry chant.

  In that instant, hatred and decades of mounting resentment triumphed over common sense. The crowd’s passions reignited and the faces of a hundred Earaqi turned to face Issa, eyes dark with rage.

  “Death to the Keeper’s Blade!” they shouted, raising their crude weapons. “Death to the traitors!”

  Issa nearly wept. “Please!” She had no desire to kill her own people. “Don’t do this!”

  Her words fell on deaf ears. The foremost Earaqi surged toward her, faces twisted and made monstrous by hate.

  Issa tried one last time. “Don’t let—”

  A strong hand closed around her tunic and hauled her backward. Off-balance, she staggered and would have fallen if not for Etai’s arm snagging her around the waist. Her fellow Blade dragged her through the door and slammed it behind her. Nysin dropped the heavy bolt into its cradle. Just in time. A loud boom echoed as the crowd beyond crashed into the door.

  “No!” A frustrated roar tore from Issa’s lips. “No, no, no!” She whirled on Etai and the Indomitable trainees. “What in the bloody hell was that? I almost had them, but what happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Etai shook her head. “But we—”

  The loud thud came again, accompanied by the cracking of wood. The door shuddered beneath the assault.

  “—need to get out of here!”

  I had them! Sorrow flared within Issa. They were listening to reason. “But—”

  “Now, Issa!” Etai shouted, an unmistakable note of command in her voice. “I’ll order Nysin and Viddan to drag you
out of here if I have to.”

  Ten pale young faces stared at her. The sight of her terrified Indomitables pushed back her despair. She was responsible for them, for keeping them alive. She could grieve for the Earaqi later. Survival first.

  She swallowed the surging emotions. “That way!” She thrust a finger toward the back of the small chamber. This had been Omurn’s office before his death. She’d been hauled in here when the stern-faced Earaqi caught her sneaking out of his warehouse with a bundle of apricots tucked in her shirt. “Omurn had a rear door.”

  She hurried toward the back exit and had just flung the door open when a cry of pain echoed in the alley beyond. The sounds of a scuffle and a quiet grunt set her shoulders in knots.

  Stepping out into the dark night, she braced herself for an attack from the surging crowd. Yet shock froze her in place as she recognized the lone figure standing in the narrow alley.

  “Evren? What are you—?” Her words trailed off as she caught sight of the unconscious man at his feet. It was the speaker from within. Somehow, he’d gotten around her and her Indomitables. Now, however, he lay senseless, blood trickling from his nose and his right wrist twisted at an awkward angle.

  Evren bared his teeth in a snarl. “He was trying to escape! Not a bloody chance I’m letting that happen.” He thrust a finger down at the insensate figure. “He’s the Keeper-damned Blackfinger!”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Evren reached for his daggers as the heavy-set brute accosted Issa in the alley, but breathed a silent sigh of relief when he heard her answers—good for you, thinking quickly. He tracked Issa’s movements as she followed the thick-necked man toward the warehouse doors.

  Worry hummed within him at the sight of the crowd within. That could turn into a mob any minute.

  Yet something about the hulk that had found Issa seemed…off.

  He slithered toward the side door and slipped his dagger between the door and frame, popping the latch with ease. The shadows on the eastern side of the warehouse provided ample cover, and the noise of the crowd drowned out any sound of his movement as he darted behind a pile of crushed and broken crates.

  His eyes scanned the crowd until he found the man he sought. The man wore a red Earaqi headband, knee-length shendyt, and sleeveless tunic, but the muscles rippling on his arms and shoulders couldn’t possibly be the result of working the fields. And he also lacked the dark cloak and fanatical zeal of the men he’d spotted in the tunnels.

  Is he Ybrazhe?

  It seemed a stretch—he’d come hunting Hallar’s Warriors, the militants he’d been all but certain were hiding out in the Cultivator’s Tier. Issa’s directions had led him here.

  But had he made a mistake?

  A door at the far end of the warehouse opened and a man strode into the light.

  Evren’s jaw dropped. No!

  The man had exchanged his tailored garments for simple Earaqi clothing, yet there was no mistaking the confidence in his posture, the sonorous timbre of his voice. The sight of bloodstained bandages on his forearms confirmed it.

  Blackfinger!

  Horror twisted Evren’s gut into knots. He’d found the wrong place. He wasn’t going to stop Hallar’s Warriors.

  He wanted to race back out into the night, to keep hunting the militants that threatened to incite bloodshed and riots in the city. Yet the sight of the Blackfinger held Evren rooted to the spot. Ice slithered down his spine as the man began to speak. What is the leader of the Ybrazhe doing here? And why is he giving them a speech like this?

  Blackfinger’s flowery words of “taking the power” and “the people ruling Shalandra” made no sense. The Syndicate thrived on control and fear, using brute force and violence to control the masses. Putting power in the hands of the Mahjuri, Earaqi, and Kabili would only hinder their ultimate ends.

  Acid surged to his throat as realization dawned. He’s whipping them into a frenzy so they’ll rile up the crowd.

  Since the first time he’d encountered the Ybrazhe, Evren had understood that the Syndicate wanted to stir up chaos, chaos that they’d use to their own ends. Yet this was far more than just unrest and protests—Blackfinger spoke of a full-scale revolution.

  All along the three lower tiers, tens of thousands of people sat in silent protest over the death of their Child of Gold. Yet Blackfinger’s impassioned speech was the match and these Earaqi the kindling that set Shalandra ablaze. The peaceful demonstration would turn violent as the incited youths marched through the crowd, their angry words stirring up the resentment that had simmered beneath the surface for so long. A shudder ran down Evren’s spine at the mental image of tens of thousands of angry Shalandrans rampaging through the city. The violence perpetrated by the Indomitables the previous night would pale in comparison to an infuriated, leaderless mob.

  Yet as he listened to Blackfinger’s words, he suddenly understood the intention behind the man’s actions. He’s pointing them toward the Pharus, but not at the real culprits: the Keeper’s Council.

  His mind raced as he unraveled the threads.

  According to Hykos, the Keeper’s Council had overridden the Pharus’ wishes and Lady Callista’s protests to order the execution of Aterallis, the “Child of Gold”. Yet the Ybrazhe laid the blame squarely at the feet of the Pharus, using their indignation to stage an uprising. It all but confirmed what Evren, Kodyn, and Killian had uncovered: the Ybrazhe and the Keeper’s Council were in league.

  Overthrowing the Pharus would place even more power in the hands of the Keeper’s Council. An uprising would give the Syndicate an excuse to muscle in on the Artisan’s Tier while the Indomitables were busy dealing with the Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri. Perhaps the Necroseti had even promised Blackfinger greater freedom to rule his corner of Shalandra.

  Lady Callista and the Elders of the Blade would no doubt resist the Council’s attempted coup, but they’d be too busy quelling the riot to notice. He wouldn’t be surprised if the treacherous Councilors had found a way to dispose of her, the only opposition to their power, during the chaos.

  It’s damned near perfect!

  At that moment, Issa charged from the crowd and tackled Blackfinger.

  A fierce grin split Evren’s lips. Watcher’s beard, she’s good!

  He prepared to leap from his hiding place and help Issa take down the threat, yet instinct stopped him. Issa didn’t need his help to take down four thugs. He had no idea what other threats lurked in the shadows, or what would happen with the furious crowd. His best play would be to watch and wait.

  Then more thugs flooded from the room, and Etai and the Indomitables joined the battle. Again, Evren wanted to leap to their defense, but again instinct held him back. If he got tangled up in this fight, he wouldn’t be ready when—

  There!

  His eyes followed Blackfinger as the man scuttled out of Issa’s line of sight and ducked through the open door.

  Oh no, you don’t! The bastard had been behind all of this chaos. You won’t get away that easily.

  Evren burst from his hiding place and ducked back out the side door. He raced through the darkness toward the alley that led around behind the warehouse. His heart hammered as he rounded the corner, just in time to find the rear door bursting open.

  Blackfinger darted out into the darkness, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder for any signs of pursuit. Evren was on him in an instant, fist swinging with the force of his sprint. His blow caught Blackfinger in the jaw, staggering him backward. Yet the Syndicate leader recovered quickly, dropping into a fighting crouch, fists balled. He stood in the stance of a man who knew his way around a brawl, weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders loose and chin tucked against his shoulder.

  Blackfinger’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Evren. “You!”

  “Me,” Evren snarled. “Missed me?”

  For response, Blackfinger spat a curse.

  “Give it up, Blackfinger.” Evren drew his twin jambiyas. “Surrender, and I’ll have
the Keeper’s Blades haul you unharmed to Lady Callista, where you can tell her all about your affiliation with the Necroseti.”

  Blackfinger’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of that?”

  “Enough to know that you’re Angrak’s half-brother, and that you were helping him skim shalanite from the Pharus’ mines.” Evren gripped his blades tighter, eyes wary. “Now lift your hands above your—”

  Blackfinger charged with a guttural roar, cutting off his words with a savage swipe of the dagger he drew from beneath his robes. Evren leapt back and the attack struck only empty air. He answered with a thrust of his own, but Blackfinger’s dagger clashed against his, striking sparks, knocking Evren’s blow wide. The man’s left fist whipped forward almost too fast for Evren to follow.

  Evren saw the punch coming and threw his head back. Too late. Blackfinger’s quick jab drove square into his face. Sparks sprang to life in his vision and he staggered, reeling. Instinct honed over years of training and fighting on the streets kicked in and Evren leapt backward, out of Blackfinger’s dagger reach. A snick of cloth and a tug on his tunic told him he’d barely dodged the blow.

  He shook his head to clear the dazzling lights and retreated again, two quick steps, then launched himself forward. His quick reversal of motion caught Blackfinger by surprise. Evren was inside the man’s reach before he could pull back his dagger. Evren’s world still spun wildly from the blow, but he lashed out with three quick punches at the man’s stomach and chest.

  Blackfinger grunted and air whooshed from his lungs. A fourth blow, an uppercut this time, caught him under the chin and rocked him backward.

  The man tried to attack Evren, his dagger a blur of steel glimmering in the night. But a cold, logical calm had settled into Evren’s mind, the way it always did when fighting. Blackfinger’s attacks seemed to slow, as if the man fought through mud. Evren dodged the first slashing strike, slapped aside a thrust, and blocked a follow-up with his forearm.