Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  The burden of his failure weighed heavy on his shoulders once more. He had tried to stop the Ybrazhe, only to be knocked off course in an attempt to prevent Hallar’s Warriors from sparking riots in the city. He’d failed at that, too, finding the place where Blackfinger was riling up the people. He hadn’t even been able to stop the Syndicate from causing chaos—the arrival of the already-raging mob had rendered Issa’s impassioned pleas for peace useless. The Earaqi they’d come so close to placating had taken up arms against their fellow Shalandrans. Blackfinger’s arrest was a poor consolation prize.

  Despondency threatened to crush him beneath an immense burden. With effort, Evren pushed back against the despair. The war isn’t over yet, not until either I’m dead or the Ybrazhe is. He’d faced worse setbacks before; he couldn’t let one, even as colossal as this, stop him.

  So what now? His mind raced as he tried to figure out his next step. Shalandra was far too large of a city to simply go hunting the Syndicate aimlessly. They could be anywhere—looting the Cultivator’s Tier, stirring up trouble on the Artisan’s Tier, even finding a way to slip past the Indomitables guarding the gate to the Defender’s Tier to attack the Dhukari and Alqati. He could run himself ragged trying to find them and still come up empty-handed.

  He needed to play this smart.

  And when it comes to smart, there’s only one person in Shalandra that I can think of.

  A face with sharp eyes, strong features, and a thick black beard. Killian the blacksmith.

  Blacksmith, sure. Evren snorted. He’s as much a blacksmith as the Hunter is a knife-sharpener.

  Killian had the barrel chest, broad shoulders, and powerful arms of a smith, but he was so much more than just a craftsman. No mere smith would run a crew of street urchins as his personal spies. No average blacksmith would craft a leg brace that doubled as a tri-sectional staff. Killian knew too much about too many things and people to be a simple blacksmith.

  A memory flashed through his mind: Killian stood in his forge, holding a palm-sized book with a black leather cover. “Over the years, I’ve been slowly collecting a store of information on the Ybrazhe, and Blackfinger specifically. I knew a day like today would come, and I fully intended to be prepared to deal with the Syndicate when it did.”

  Of course! Evren cursed himself for a fool. Killian has to have something in that book of his!

  The blacksmith had known that Blackfinger was half-brother to the deceased Councilor Angrak. He had been the one to connect Angrak’s theft from the shalanite mines to Blackfinger’s smuggling operations.

  He’s got to know about at least some of the Ybrazhe hideouts and safe houses!

  The Syndicate thugs would be highly visible to someone trained to spot them. Huge, broad-shouldered brutes didn’t exactly blend in among the starving and disease-ridden. Killian’s Mumblers would have had little trouble tracking them through the city back to wherever they hid out.

  A grim smile spread Evren’s lips. Time to see a blacksmith about some thugs.

  * * *

  Evren’s heart sank into his stomach as he saw the thick cluster of angry men and women surrounding Killian’s forge. The besieging force had hammered away at the very walls Evren had used to slip in and out of the smithy unseen, and only the presence of a tall, white-haired Keeper’s Blade kept them from breaking through. What a Blade was doing there, Evren would have to worry about another time. For now, only one thing mattered. There’s no way I’ll get in there!

  The raging mob wasn’t the only obstacle in his way. The smithy seemed to have sprouted impressive defenses overnight. Simple stone walls now shone with glistening spikes stretched with barbed wire. The smithy’s front door, always open to customers and Mumblers, had been torn down, but a solid steel gate barred the way.

  Well damn me if that doesn’t confirm what I already suspected. No typical blacksmith would have such fortifications. A smith with a martial background might. An Indomitable, perhaps, one that had spent years fighting on the front lines of the Eirdkilr Wars.

  Yet at that moment, the mystery of who Killian was held far less interest than how in the bloody hell he’d reach the man. It took less than a minute for Evren to decide his only way in would be to sprout wings and fly.

  In the unlikely event that doesn’t happen, I’m going to have to rethink my plan.

  Something about the throng massing around the smithy felt wrong. Looters and rioters tended to act like a raging river, choosing the path of least resistance and maximum damage. Once faced with such impassable barriers, most mobs would flow around the obstruction in search of easier targets—targets that shattered, screamed, and bled more easily than solid steel and stone.

  Yet this horde acted almost like raging Eirdkilr barbarians. They ringed Killian’s smithy, like an army laying siege to the impenetrable fortifications of a mighty castle. The crowd never fully dispersed or seemed to lose heart. If anything, more and more Earaqi, Kabili, and Mahjuri appeared with every passing minute, joining in the assault.

  Horror surged within Evren as the realization struck him. They’re being herded!

  Mindless mobs tended to act like cattle; it only took a firm hand and strong will to manipulate them. And as Blackfinger had proven with his impassioned pleas for revolt the previous night, the Syndicate wanted to control the crowds.

  Evren’s eyes narrowed, his gaze roaming over the seething mass of men and women. They swarmed around the golden sandstone walls like termites assailing an anthill, their voices raised in chants of “Bring on the Final Destruction!” and “Death to the Pharus!” Yet, beneath the shouts, Evren heard gruff voices barking out orders.

  “Bring the bloody wall down!” came the coarse shout. “Beyond that door are riches untold, all yours to claim!”

  Evren sought out the men to whom the voices belonged. Tall, broad-shouldered men with heavy muscles and hands scarred by years of fighting. Men who wore crimson Earaqi headbands and coarse black rope marking them as Mahjuri, yet who seemed to command the unthinking, fury-driven actions of those around them. They goaded the mob with single-minded determination, hurling them at the walls of Killian’s forge like captains and commanders directing a siege.

  The Ybrazhe had finally taken their swing at Killian, using the chaos of the riot to conceal their true motives. They’d wanted him out of the way, his Mumblers to work for them, and the secrets of his black book in their control. Now, they would get it. All that stood between them and success was that wall and the Keeper’s Blade fighting within.

  A desperate plan formed in Evren’s mind. Killian was beyond his help…for now. The blacksmith would have to weather the storm on his own until Evren could summon reinforcements. But the presence of the Ybrazhe gave Evren a new chance to fulfill his mission.

  Without hesitation, he slipped from the shadows of the alleyway and raced toward the crowd. He picked up a discarded club and joined the throng, adding his voice to the shouts of “Death to the Pharus!” He dove into the mob. “Bring on the Final Destruction!”

  With his dark skin, shorter build, and red cloth headband, he could pass for any of the Earaqi assaulting the forge. The crowd would provide him cover and keep the Ybrazhe from noticing him.

  The surging, rushing currents of the throng swallowed him, but he fought to hold his ground. He needed to remain near the rear of the crowd, just deep enough into the people that he became one more featureless face among many.

  Yet, with every step, he moved closer to the Ybrazhe commanding the revolt. He wouldn’t stop until he drew within striking distance of the Syndicate thugs. And when the time came, he’d make his move.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It seemed impossible. How is Hykos here? She blinked, as if expecting him to disappear.

  But there he stood, solid as steel, his strong arm holding her from collapse.

  “Can you move?” His voice sounded faint through the blood pounding in her ears. “We need to get out of here, now!”

  “They’re co
ming back!” called another familiar voice.

  Nysin? Issa’s gaze flitted to the black-armored figures forming a wall between her and her attackers. Nysin, Enyera, Viddan, Rilith, all her trainees.

  The roar of the crowd snapped Issa back to reality. She forced herself to stand despite the agony lancing through her ribs, legs, arms, and chest. “Yes,” she managed to gasp. “I can move.”

  “Then let’s go.” Hykos was all command, and for once, Issa had no qualms about following orders. Her battered and bleeding body hurt too much for her to do anything more than focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The battle with her people had come within a heartbeat of sending her to the Long Keeper’s arms.

  Yet somehow, despite everything, she still lived. The god of death hadn’t claimed her yet, and as long as she drew breath, she could fight.

  First, she needed to recover. Pain flared down both legs, along her right side, left shoulder, neck, and face. Without armor or helmet, she’d had only her skill at arms to fend off the blades and clubs of her enemies. Though she tried to stand strong, she had to lean on Hykos for support as she hobbled down the narrow lane. Too many blows had gotten through; another minute, and she might be bleeding out on the ground, not limping away from the battle.

  Hykos moved toward the sandstone cliff. “In here!”

  Issa’s eyes went wide as he pressed the stone and an opening appeared. She had no time for questions—the furious shouts and roars of the crowd grew louder with every heartbeat as their enemy fled. Issa stumbled into the cool darkness beside Hykos.

  “Get in, get in!” Hykos’ strong voice echoed through the tunnels. “Hurry!”

  Shadows darkened the doorway one after another as the Indomitables darted into the tunnel. A mailed fist clanked against solid stone and slowly the stone door rumbled closed. Issa’s heart hammered a frantic beat as the uproar drew nearer, the sound settling the stone walls around her rattling. But slowly, one agonizing second at a time, the door slid shut and darkness swallowed them.

  The near-silence of the tunnels seemed eerily loud after the chaos Issa had just escaped. Only the panting and gasping of tired soldiers echoed around her, with a few groans to add to the chorus.

  “Company, report!” Hykos called. “Any serious injuries?”

  “I’m pretty sure Nysin’s cracked a fingernail, the way he’s whinging,” came Enyera’s call with its usual acerbic edge.

  “You’re welcome for saving your ass back there,” Nysin retorted. “Next time, I’ll just let that club hit you in that wool-stuffed head of yours. Save us all a great deal of grief.”

  “Or, maybe, next time, you block with your sword instead of your empty hand.” This time, Issa heard the note of fear ringing in Enyera’s too-sweet response. She’d stared death in the face and few walked away unshaken. Even Issa had no idea how she still stood. After what she’d just endured, a part of her wanted to collapse into a heap and lay on the ground until the pain passed.

  But she couldn’t do that. Not in front of Hykos and her Indomitables. She had to stand strong for them.

  “How’s Issa?” Rilith’s voice drowned out Nysin’s retort to Enyera.

  “Fine, I think.” The ache in Issa’s jaw paled in comparison to the wounds scoring the rest of her body. But that pain—that and the warmth of the blood sliding down her leg and arm—meant she still lived. “Nothing a few bandages won’t remedy.”

  “Good thing we found you when we did.” Concern echoed in Hykos’ voice. “You were seconds away from being overwhelmed.”

  “And how, exactly, did you find me?” The question had pounded in her head since the moment she saw Hykos standing beside her. Shalandra was far too large a city for this to be simple coincidence.

  “Lady Callista sent us,” Hykos replied. His voice was tight, his words clipped and strained. “She said you’d gone down to the Cultivator’s Tier to check on your grandparents. Only…” He trailed off.

  Issa’s brow furrowed. Was that embarrassment she heard from the Archateros?

  “Only what?”

  “I didn’t know where you lived.” In the crimson light of the glowing gemstones, Issa could have sworn Hykos blushed.

  Issa sucked in a breath. Of course! She’d told Hykos little of her past before the Keeper’s Blades; their relationship to date had begun and ended with their service to Shalandra. Yet after everything they’d endured together, everything he’d done for her, she felt a hint of guilt. If she’d been as good a friend as he’d been to her, she should have told him more.

  Hykos was one of the few Blades she knew she could trust. Along with Etai, her fellow Prototopoi, Hykos had more than earned her trust. He’d been kind from the beginning, taught her with patience, and done what he could to shield her from Tannard’s cruelties. He deserved better than for her to keep him at arm’s length.

  “But then I remembered something Etai told me,” Hykos continued, seeming not to notice Issa’s inner turmoil. “About a blacksmith you two saved on the Artisan’s Tier. She said it seemed personal.”

  Issa’s gut clenched. Someone else I owe answers to. Etai had helped her rescue Killian from the Ybrazhe without question, and Issa had promised to explain everything in time. Despite the secrecy, Etai had helped Issa time and again, always without asking anything in return.

  “The Serenii tunnels let out back there, and we were on our way to Smith’s Alley to see if we could spot you. I’d say the Keeper’s Faces of Mercy and Justice smiled on us.”

  Hykos smiled, and relief shone in his eyes. Beneath the blood and worry twisting his face, Issa couldn’t help admitting that it was a handsome smile. Being so near him sent a flush of warmth through her. Somehow, he made her nervous, uncomfortable, and excited all at the same time.

  That made her strangely angry. “And what about you lot?” She used Hykos’ arm to push herself up to her full height and turned to the ten Indomitable trainees. The last thing she wanted was to look wounded or weak in front of Hykos. Or her soldiers, she told herself. “What brings you down here?”

  “Following Lady Callista’s orders.” Enyera shrugged, but the proud glow in her eyes spoke volumes. “Turns out we’re some of the few Indomitables that know the truth of these secret tunnels. Makes us best-suited to running missions like this.”

  “Though not without swearing all sorts of oaths of secrecy,” Nysin grumbled. “If we so much as say a word to the wrong someone, we’re set to roast in the fiery hell for eternity. Seems a bit unfair for…”

  Issa stopped listening to Nysin’s griping. Despite the Mahjuri trainee’s tendency to complain, he’d proven himself reliable in battle and cool-headed in a tight spot. She could allow him a bit of bellyaching as long as he came through when she needed him.

  She turned to Hykos, but the Archateros spoke before she did.

  “Let’s get those wounds bandaged.” Worry sparkled in his eyes. “After that, we have orders to take you straight to Lady Callista on the Defender’s Tier.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Issa tried to sound resolute, but a groan escaped her lips as a sharp pain radiated up her side.

  “No, you’re not. Sit down and let me take a look,” Hykos commanded.

  “Hykos—”

  “I’m still your Archateros, remember?” His voice was firm, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

  Issa tried to brush it off. “So you’re going to pull rank on me now?”

  He met her gaze with a fierce scowl. “If it means I can stop you from bleeding out or collapsing on our trek up to the Defender’s Tier, you’re damned right I will.” Anger flashed in his eyes.

  Issa prepared to retort, yet something stopped her. She argued out of sheer stubbornness, but Hykos was right. I’ll be useless if I’m too weak from blood loss or too in pain to move.

  She accepted his help to lower her to a sitting position. Removing his steel gauntlets, he set about tending her wounds. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he lifted her shirt to examine the wounds on her s
tomach and the bruises forming on her ribs. She’d never been embarrassed before, but suddenly found her face unbearably hot as his eyes roamed her bared flesh, up her torso to the swell of her breasts just visible beneath the tunic. Her chagrin diminished only slightly as his hands moved down to the cuts on her legs, then back up to her arms, shoulders, and neck.

  “I won’t be sure until I can get you into daylight,” he finally said, “but I’d say you’re the luckiest person on Einan. Ribs are bruised, not cracked, and aside from the one deep gash on your leg, the rest are minor.”

  Issa clenched her teeth against the pain lancing her ribs. “I sure don’t feel lucky.”

  “And you won’t for a day or two.” Hykos nodded. “But the Keeper’s blessing will heal you soon enough and you’ll realize how damned stupid you were for trying to face that mob alone.”

  Again, the strange anger returned in his eyes and his voice.

  “I was just doing my job,” Issa protested.

  “You can’t take on the whole city alone, Issa!” Hykos’ brow furrowed and his tone grew sharp. “You’re good, but not that good.”

  “I wasn’t fighting for the fight’s sake.” Issa’s jaw clenched, but she ignored the ache in her muscles. Irritation at the Archateros flared hot within her. “I was doing my job and protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. A woman, dragged out of her home by the rioters. I stopped them from doing far worse than just hurting her.”

  “Oh.” Hykos finished bandaging her in silence. “How’s that?”

  That was it. No apology, no admission of error.

  “Fine,” Issa said, her tone close to a growl.

  He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “You sure?”

  Issa suddenly saw the truth written in his expression. Hykos wasn’t angry that she’d fought an impossible battle. He was angry that she’d come within a heartbeat of death. Had he arrived seconds later, he would have found her corpse.

  She tried again, in a softer voice this time. “It hurts, but I’ll be fine, I think.” She rested a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”