Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  She tried to speak, to ask questions, but nothing came out. For a heartbeat, she stood in stunned silence, her mouth agape, words refusing to form in her mind.

  “Get over the wall, quickly, nechda!” Nytano held out a mailed hand toward her, urgency written in his eyes. “You’ll be safe in—”

  “Get them!” A roar drowned out her grandfather’s words. “Kill the Dhukari!”

  Issa turned, half-dazed, toward the sound of the cry. Her shock-numbed mind registered the onrushing mob, nearly a hundred angry Earaqi, Mahjuri, and Kabili wielding crude weapons and rusted blades. She stood rooted in place, unable to move.

  “Issa!” His cry resonated, the call of a man born and bred to battle, yet echoed with the fear of a loving grandfather.

  The familiar voice, so reassuring, snapped her from her stupor. Her body reacted even as her mind recovered. She raised her club with her left hand while her right reached for the short sword she’d driven into the dead thug’s body. She tore it free with a powerful yank and turned to face the charging crowd.

  Adrenaline rushed through her veins and drove away the last of her bewilderment. Immediately, logic and years of training kicked in. She could not hope to face down the throng, not clad only in a simple tunic and wielding crude weapons. Yet she had no time to scale the wall into Killian’s smithy, to join her grandparents, before the crowd reached her.

  She had only one choice: to flee.

  Yet she had to do something to help. The mob had already gotten over the wall once. She might not be able to fight beside her grandparents, but she could protect them.

  An idea flashed into her mind and she acted without hesitation. She shot her grandfather a bright smile. “See you soon, Saba!”

  Nytano’s lips formed the words “No!” the instant before Issa turned to face the crowd.

  “Long live the Pharus!” she shouted over the angry roaring and the thump, thump, thump of hundreds of charging feet. “May he reign for a thousand years!”

  Whirling, she turned and sprinted north, away from Killian’s forge and the angry mob. Her heart hammered in time with her pounding boots. The streets flew by in a blur, fear and desperation lending wings to her feet.

  Please let this work!

  She glanced over her shoulder and her heart leapt. The throng had divided. Half, led by the Ybrazhe thugs, had turned to assault the walls. The other half, those goaded to fury by her words, raced toward her in a teeming mass of flesh and fury.

  Yes! Every man and woman that pursued her meant one fewer assaulting Killian’s forge. She had bought her grandparents a reprieve. Saba would still have to fight, but only half as many enemies. It was the best she could do.

  Yet her elation died as the howling of the crowd closed on her heels. Like hounds baying at the heels of a bear, they cried for her blood. Their shouts of “Death to the traitor!” and “The Final Destruction comes for all!” rang off the stone walls of the shops and houses bordering the lane.

  Issa had traveled the streets around Killian’s smithy well enough to know that she had just one hope of escaping the pursuing throng. The rioting mob had surrounded the forge, and there was no way she’d get through the crowd flooding Miller’s Alley. But she had a way out: the narrow lane that ran east to west along the base of the northern cliff. There, she could duck into the shadows of the taller Intaji structures and hopefully lose her pursuers.

  Confusion whirled in her mind as she ran. Grandfather, fighting? A Keeper’s Blade? The sheer impossibility of it staggered her. During her seventeen years of life, her Saba hadn’t once shown any sort of violent tendencies. Years of working the plow had broadened his shoulders and strengthened his arms, yet he’d always resorted to calm words and cool-headed logic to solve problems rather than his fists.

  But there’d been no mistake: he wore that armor with familiar ease, just as Issa felt when clad in her own Blades’ plate mail. Hykos had once told her that each Keeper’s Blade had their armor specially-crafted for them. No one outside of the Blades would wield, much less own, one of those two-handed flammards. The flame-shaped blades were the mark of the Long Keeper’s favor, won by trial of steel in the Crucible.

  Doubts and questions flew at her from all sides, too fast for her to even put into thoughts. The image of her mild-mannered grandfather filled her mind. The image stood in stark contrast to the blood-stained, sword-wielding, armored warrior she’d just seen in Killian’s smithy.

  So consumed was she by her confusion that she nearly ran head-on into the sandstone cliff. Instinct warned her in time to throw herself to the west, down the narrow alley running parallel to the craggy golden face. A hurried glance over her shoulder sent fear humming through her gut. The throng was hot on her heels, and they had spotted her.

  Damn it! She tried to clear her mind, to push away the seething chaos of her thoughts. She had to focus on getting out of the Artisan’s Tier in one piece. At the very least, she needed to lose her pursuers. If she ran into any more mobs, they might think she was—

  Horror turned her blood to ice. Less than a hundred yards up the narrow lane, a handful of Kabili and Mahjuri smashed through the doors of Intaji homes. Men and women emerged hauling armfuls of looted furniture, clothing, foodstuffs, goods, even jewelry. Two brutes dragged out a kicking, screaming woman. The blood trickling from her forehead turned her Intaji headband a dark rust color. Yet not even a split lip, black eye, and bloodied nose stopped her from struggling against her captors. She was pretty enough that they’d want to do more than simply punish her for being born a caste above theirs.

  Anger flared bright within Issa, burning away the cold seeping into her veins. Time slowed as she wrestled with the decision. If she tried to help, even for the minute it would take to fight off the Intaji woman’s attackers, her pursuers would catch up. She might be blessed by the Long Keeper with accelerated healing, but not even she could escape that battle alive.

  Yet the last time she’d stood by and done nothing, an innocent man had died. She had fought to stop the chaos in the Slave’s Tier—even going so far as to arrest Indomitable officers—yet when she knew that executing Aterallis would be a mistake, she had held her tongue. Out of duty and loyalty to Lady Callista, she’d told herself. It still weighed on her conscience and seeing what it had done to the city, what it had allowed the Ybrazhe, Gatherers, and Hallar’s Warriors to do in Aterallis’ name, she knew it had been the wrong choice.

  She had sworn service to the city of Shalandra. Not just Lady Callista, the Pharus, and her superiors in the Keeper’s Blades, but all of Shalandra. She was the servant of death and shield of the innocent. The Long Keeper had chosen her to protect those who could not defend themselves.

  Here, now, she knew she had to intervene, even if it cost her.

  If I die, so be it. The words rang in her mind as she thundered toward the two men and their victim. At least I’ll meet the Long Keeper knowing I made the right choice.

  The faces of her grandparents flashed before her eyes. Saba and Savta had raised her to STAND UP. If her grandfather truly was a Keeper’s Blade, he’d be proud of her. Even if no one knew what she’d done here, it would be enough. When she finally met her parents in the Sleepless Lands, they would know she had died well.

  Resolve hardened within Issa as she closed the distance to the two Mahjuri wrestling the Intaji woman to the ground. One clamped a hard hand over her mouth while the other struggled to wrench her legs apart.

  Issa’s short sword, backed by the force of her charge and burning fury, sheared through the man’s neck. The Mahjuri’s head flew through the air, spraying blood across his intended victim. The second man never had a chance to look up before Issa’s club crunched into the side of his head. Her blow knocked him off the woman and he collapsed to the dusty street, unconscious, his skull shattered.

  Issa stooped and half-dragged, half-lifted the woman to her feet. “Run!” She gave the Intaji woman a shove, sending her staggering down the street. The nearby rioters
were too preoccupied with their looting or too stunned by Issa’s blitz attack to do more than stare at the fleeing woman and the girl with the bloodied weapons.

  That single moment was all Issa had. Behind her, an angry roar and shouts of “Traitor!” echoed off the cliff walls. Yet she was beyond fear. Her jaw set and her teeth clenched, she tightened her grip on her weapons as she turned to face the crowd pursuing her. A small smile played on her lips.

  Yes, Saba would be proud. She’d saved a life, had saved many lives during her short tenure as a Keeper’s Blade. Her actions had stopped the people from rioting sooner, had kept the Indomitables from killing hundreds of Mahjuri and Kabili. Whatever came next, she would face the Long Keeper with her head held high.

  Then the roaring crowd reached her. The fastest of the pursuers had outpaced their slower comrades, and now they came on in staggered waves of twos and threes, one after the other. Hatred twisted the faces of the men and women rushing her. The wild light of bloodlust and starvation-fueled frenzy shone in their eyes, driving back all rational thought.

  The clash of wood and steel consumed Issa’s world. She hacked, chopped, and struck, her club shattering bones and her short sword carving flesh. Blood sprayed in the air around her—she had no time to pull her attacks, to try for blows that wounded instead of killed. The onrushing enemy, her own people, bayed for her blood. Nothing short of death would stop them.

  Pain exploded in her right side, her left shoulder, her chest, her head, and a dozen more places where daggers, clubs, and fists struck home. She had no armor to protect herself, nothing but the crude weapons and her determination to fight back. Yet she stood, unafraid in the face of certain doom, battling until her last breath.

  Issa gave ground, one desperate step at a time, retreating before the fury of the mob. She couldn’t flee—the looters had joined the throng attacking her—but she’d be damned if she let them get behind her. Her sword and club moved in twin blurs, striking, blocked, chopping, defending. No stopping, no slowing, no matter the agony that coursed through her body or the fire consuming her limbs. She would die the moment she dropped her guard.

  Yet she could feel herself tiring, feel the blows and wounds taking their toll on her body. No matter how many she blocked or dodged, too many more weapons pierced her guard. Blood trickled from a dozen cuts around her body. A lucky blow to her temple staggered her and set the world spinning around her. Only her instincts and speed kept her from being pierced by a dozen daggers or torn apart by the reaching hands.

  A roar of rage tore from her lips as she fought. In vain, she knew, but she’d be damned if she went down without a fight.

  Suddenly, a new voice echoed from behind her. “Issa!”

  Her reeling mind didn’t recognize it for a long moment and when it did, it seemed impossible.

  Yet he suddenly appeared beside her, tall and strong in his Blades’ armor, a huge black steel sword in his hand. He chopped through rioters with deadly precision and grace. His sword moved in a blur, the blessing of the Long Keeper infusing his bunching muscles with inhuman speed. A wall of spiked armor and fiery-eyed rage stood between her and the crowd.

  More figures in black—Indomitables, here?—joined in the battle, hammering into the mob with sickle-shaped swords and grim determination. With cries of anger, they drove the throng back, one bloody step after another.

  Issa staggered backward, gasping. Strength fled from her limbs and she sagged, but strong arms held her upright. Worry sparkled in the dark, kohl-rimmed eyes that stared into hers.

  “Issa?” His voice came from afar, faint through the pounding of the blood in her ears. “Talk to me, Issa! How badly are you hurt?”

  She struggled to speak, yet her tongue was numb, her jaw ached from clenching.

  Only one word came out. “H-Hykos?”

  Chapter Nine

  Evren’s fists clenched and unclenched as he watched Kodyn and Aisha leave on the heels of the Secret Keepers. Even after the stone wall shut behind the departing priests, the nervous roiling in his stomach didn’t slow.

  His chest clenched and he found himself struggling to draw breath. He was right back in a temple, trapped, surrounded by walls of stone and priests that wanted to exploit him. No, not him. Hailen. That only made things worse. He could protect himself—he’d fought for years in the Master’s Temple and on the streets of Vothmot—but he couldn’t protect Hailen from every Secret Keeper in Shalandra. If they wanted to use him, and the threat in Ennolar’s eyes and hand motions had made their intentions plain, he’d have little hope of stopping them.

  “Evren.” A quiet voice, accompanied by a warm hand on his shoulder, startled him.

  Evren whirled, fists clenched, pulse spiking. He actually brought up his hands to defend himself and barely managed to stop his instincts from lashing out. Only the soft, familiar voice of Briana pierced the panic digging icy fingers into his brain.

  “Evren, what you did back there…” Wonder sparkled in her eyes. “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Hailen snorted. “And stupidest.”

  The acid in the boy’s tone brought anger flaring to life within Evren. “What?” he snapped, glaring at the young boy. “What was that?”

  “You heard me.” Hailen didn’t flinch, but met Evren’s eyes without hesitation. “Only an idiot would talk like that to someone in Ennolar’s position. He’s just got to snap his fingers and his Secret Keepers will snap your neck.”

  Evren’s jaw dropped. That was the last thing he’d expected from Hailen!

  “Look, I get that you’re trying to protect me and Briana,” Hailen said, and a hint of a grin twisted his lips at the girl’s name, “but next time, maybe don’t piss off the Arch-Guardian that’s giving us shelter, eh?”

  Briana seemed equally surprised. Her wide eyes fixed on Hailen, her lips parted in astonishment.

  “I know you’re worried about us, locked away in here,” Hailen continued, “especially with this latest attack. But remember that we have something the Secret Keepers want.” He held up a pair of fingers. “Two somethings in fact: Suroth’s journal and my blood. The Secret Keepers are smart enough to know that the best way to get what they want is to let us be.”

  Evren could find no words. Hailen’s fearlessness caught him by surprise. The boy had matured, that much he’d known since their conversation in Arch-Guardian Suroth’s study, yet now to hear this lecture from him…it felt as if their roles had reversed, that Hailen was the one looking out for him. Rational when he’d been hesitant a few minutes earlier, courageous after the fear of facing the men who had come to slay him.

  Yes, the burden of Hailen’s destiny had changed him, grown him beyond his years. And at that moment, that only served to irritate him. The last thing he needed was a lecture.

  “Fine,” Evren growled. “But I’m not going to apologize for making sure no Watcher-damned priests use you.”

  Acid rose to his throat; Hailen only knew a fraction of what he’d endured at the Lecterns’ hands, but he ought to know what happened to those who placed themselves in the power of greedy, cruel, self-interested men. Ennolar and the Secret Keepers had proven better than the Lecterns thus far, but that could change at any moment.

  Evren’s fists clenched. And when they do, I’ll be ready for it.

  Hailen’s expression softened. “The Lecterns are behind you, Evren. You don’t have to keep running.” A small smile. “Haven’t you learned anything from the Hunter? Fleeing your past only makes your present harder and your future terrifying.”

  The quiet words struck Evren like a blow to the gut. He found himself suddenly unable to breathe, as if Hailen’s simple truth had sucked the air from his lungs.

  “My father used to say something similar.” Briana’s smile matched Hailen’s. “Carrying the weight of the past makes the present burdens too heavy to bear.”

  A long silence passed as Evren stared between the two of them. He suddenly had no words, no retort or barbs wi
th which to protect himself. Somehow, Hailen had known what he didn’t, had pierced to the core of the matter with an insightfulness far beyond his years.

  “I guess…” Evren swallowed. “I guess it’s hard to let go of that, you know? Those memories don’t fade.” Tension knotted his shoulders. “I still see it, sometimes, in my dreams. My nightmares.” A shudder ran down his spine. Too many sleepless nights locked in his cold, hard stone cell, dreading the summons to fight or, far worse, hearing the shuffling limp of Lectern Uman approaching. The fear of knowing what was to come yet the helplessness at being unable to do anything. “It’s hard…”

  “I know.” Hailen stepped closer and reached up to grip Evren’s shoulder. “But you’re not there anymore. You’re here, now. Don’t let your past shape your future. The only way to move forward is to let it go.”

  Evren could say nothing. There was nothing to say. Hailen was right. He had to stop thinking the worst about people just because they wore priestly robes. The Secret Keepers had their own agenda, but they weren’t the Lecterns. They hadn’t done anything to earn his distrust. Hell, beneath the stern, silent façade of religious devotion, Ennolar and his fellow Guardians actually seemed like decent people. Evren might not be able to forget his past, not yet at least, but he could look to shape a better future. Starting here, with these priests.

  “Well, damn!” Evren shook his head. “Briana’s really rubbing off on you. You’re far too young to be so wise.”

  Color sprouted on Briana’s cheeks, adding a rosy glow to her golden skin. Evren found himself staring—even embarrassed, the girl was beautiful. Thick lines of kohl enhanced the beauty of her dark eyes, and he couldn’t help admiring the way her wavy hair framed her oval-shaped face. The shin-length kalasiris dress she wore might have been made of simple fabric, but on her petite frame, it could have been the costliest gown in the Pharus’ court. The light-skinned Voramians he’d lived around the past four years had nothing on her radiance.