Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  “Trouble in extremist paradise?” Kodyn gave a savage grin.

  “Seems like it.” Aisha jerked a thumb southeast, in the direction the two assassins had gone. “Either way, it seems those guys got the short straws of being the ones to break the news to their masters. They’re on their way to speak to the Iron Warlord and someone called ‘Dayblood’ right now.”

  “Dayblood?” Kodyn snorted. “What a ridiculous name!”

  Aisha grinned. “Right? But lame moniker or not, we need to go find them and stop them.”

  “Easier said than done.” Kodyn’s face fell. “There’s no way we can follow those assassins now. They’ve probably ducked into the tunnels and—”

  “The spirits, remember.” Aisha winked. “They will guide us.”

  Kodyn’s eyes widened a fraction. “Of course!” His gloomy expression brightened. “Well, lead the way, Spirit Whisperer.”

  With a grin, Aisha slipped off down the alley, heading southeast in pursuit of the two assassins. Movement brought warmth back to her limbs and drove the last of the chill from her body. A part of her mind, however, found it harder to readjust to being back in her flesh. She nearly walked right into a stone wall before remembering that she couldn’t pass through it as the spirits had. Those few minutes in the spirit’s form had changed something deep within her.

  A hint of fear took root deep within her. So that is what the Unshackling feels like. Imbuka had warned her of the Inkuleko, the fate that awaited Umoyahlebe that went too far into the world of the spirits. Eventually, their flesh would release the earthly bonds on their spark of life, and they too would join the Kish’aa—all while they still lived. They would leave behind an empty husk, their minds and souls permanently untethered, never more to return.

  Aisha had felt that desire to be free, to drift along on the currents of the afterlife, to escape the confines of her mortal body. The voices of the Kish’aa—those in the city and the ones already gone to Pharadesi—called to her, pulling on her. It had proven far more difficult to return to her flesh than to bond her spark of life with that of the slain Indomitable.

  Thoughts of Kodyn had brought her back. She couldn’t leave him, not yet. They had only just found each other—truly found each other, that deep connection they shared. There was so much she had left to experience; the world of the spirits could not claim her yet.

  The knowledge of what awaited her brought back a fear she’d thought conquered. She had watched her father lose his mind to the Kish’aa; did the same fate lay in her future? The Serenii Dy’nashia pendant served as a tool to sharpen her gifts, but it could not stop her mind from losing its grip on reality. The more she used her Umoyahlebe gifts, the greater the risk.

  But she could not stop using those gifts. Their future was too uncertain, the danger too great for her to rely on her mortal senses alone. She, Kodyn, and Briana only lived because of her Spirit Whisperer powers. She knew what Hallar’s Warriors planned and had an idea of how to stop them, all thanks to those abilities. Without them, she would be blind and deaf, adrift in the tempestuous ocean of peril that surrounded them.

  A heavy weight settled on her shoulders. Her gift saved lives, but ultimately, it would take hers. That knowledge brought a sick sense of dread.

  With effort, she swallowed the acid rising in her throat. I can’t think about that now, not with everything going on. She had to focus on following the assassins, tracking them back to their masters, and giving the spirits what they wanted.

  Their protests rose loud within her. Dozens of voices, all clamoring for her attention and filling her head with their insistence.

  She’d been surprised to discover so many Kish’aa clustered in the mansion. They had clung to her spirit as she eavesdropped on Hallar’s Warriors, then returned with her to her body. Their energy turned the pendant at her neck a bright blue-white, filled her veins with surging, sizzling lightning. The force of their demands threatened to split her head. Her muscles twitched, as if seized by a sudden desire to move of their own accord, to go west.

  Soon! She gritted her teeth and forced her body to heed her commands. Soon I will give you what you desire.

  Only the spirits of the two slain Indomitables proved tractable. They fought against the swelling tide of protest echoing in Aisha’s mind, flooding her legs with vitality as they goaded her eastward in pursuit of the assassins that had murdered them.

  Aisha focused on their voices, the eager intensity in their presences. She followed them through the side streets of the Keeper’s Tier. Though she could not see the men she sought, the Kish’aa served as a beacon to light her way. The dead would guide her to the living.

  Their journey proved surprisingly short. Instead of entering the Serenii tunnels, the spirits led her along the face of the southern wall toward a three-story mansion. The building seemed squat, bland, and boring compared to the opulent four- and five-floor estates that bordered it. A two-story wall surrounded the perimeter, its gates closed and barred. No sign of Hallar’s Warriors. Yet the spirits pulled her toward the mansion.

  This had to be the place.

  “Good hideout,” Kodyn signed. “None of the Dhukari would give this place a second glance.”

  Aisha nodded; she’d been thinking the same thing.

  “Think we’ll find the Iron Warlord or Dayblood in there?” Kodyn’s fingers made a mess of the letters for Iron Warlord and all but butchered the spelling of Dayblood, confusing the signs for “D” and “B” so it came out “Baydloob”.

  Aisha grinned but didn’t bother to correct him. “Almost certainly. Only one way for you to find out.”

  Kodyn cocked his head. “Me? And where will you be?”

  Aisha drew in a long breath. “In the Keeper’s Crypts,” her fingers said. “The dead need my help.”

  Both of Kodyn’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What’s in the Keeper’s Crypts?”

  “As they were arguing, they spoke of desecrating the tombs. I didn’t catch why, but it has to be something bad. And there were spirits of the dead…”

  She hesitated; this was the crazy part. Yet Kodyn’s face revealed no skepticism, only wide-eyed curiosity.

  “Spirits somehow were bonded to Hallar’s Warriors against their will.” Aisha recalled the anger of the Kish’aa; a deep-rooted furor, underscored by overwhelming helplessness. Whatever bound the spirits to the militants had dragged them away from their final resting place. “I cannot turn a deaf ear to their pleas.”

  She winced as the intensity of their demands rose to a rushing, pounding roar in her mind. The Kish’aa were enraged, and she was the only one that could bring them peace.

  “Hallar’s Warriors are doing something bad in the Keeper’s Crypts. I have to find out what, and I have to help the spirits.”

  Kodyn’s brow furrowed. “Alone?”

  Aisha nodded. “Yes,” she signed.

  “After that speech you gave about fighting together?” Kodyn raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to do exactly what you accused me—”

  “No!” Heat flared within Aisha’s chest. “Right now, we have no other choice but to split up. You need to follow those two militants and find their masters, Dayblood and the Iron Warlord. We have to learn as much as we can about their plans so we can help stop them. But I can’t ignore the call of the Kish’aa.”

  If she did, she feared they would tear her apart. These were not the spirits of beggars, scholars, or even simple soldiers. As Aisha had absorbed them into the pendant, glimpses of their memories had flashed before her eyes. Scenes of battle, bloodshed, triumph, and destruction had burned into her mind. The sparks of their lives burned with a brilliant intensity, the force of their will strong enough to shatter her resistance. Fighting their voices grew more difficult with every passing second.

  “You’re sure?” Kodyn asked. “Let me come with you. Together, we can—”

  “No.” Aisha shook her head, but her anger dimmed. “If we can find out who’s giving Hallar’s Warrior
s orders, we can put an end to their control over the city. You need to do that, just like I need to go help the dead.”

  Worry darkened his eyes, replaced a moment later by another expression. Trust. After all they’d been through together, he trusted her judgment. That knowledge filled her with gratitude and made her cherish him even more.

  “Be safe,” he told her.

  “Be smart!” She pulled him into a tight hug. After that first kiss they’d shared, the touch of his body against hers seemed somehow…different. More real, perhaps? Filled with the promise of greater possibilities in the future. With effort, she pulled away.

  “And remember what I said.” She shook a warning finger at him. “You don’t need to play hero to be a hero. Be clever and think cautiously, like we both know you can.”

  Kodyn grinned. “High standards to live up to.”

  Aisha gave him a mock shove. “Go!”

  With a jaunty salute, he turned and slipped off down the alley, toward the side of the mansion.

  Aisha waited until he disappeared from sight. Please, keep him safe! She prayed not to the gods of Einan—as she’d recently learned, they didn’t exist—but to the Kish’aa. If the spirits of the dead hovered around the mansion, perhaps they could help him even if he couldn’t see them. The thought that he had someone to watch out for him diminished her unease a fraction. As long as he didn’t do anything stupid or reckless, she’d see him again, soon.

  Burning heat flared to life within her, and the voices of the Kish’aa set her head pounding. She could ignore their demands no longer.

  Gritting her teeth, Aisha gripped the pendant around her neck. The voices didn’t fall silent, but the buzzing, grating sound in her ears sharpened until she could hear the words they spoke clearly.

  “We are sworn to guard!” they cried. “We must fulfill our duty!”

  Aisha didn’t know what they guarded or what duty they desired to fulfill, but she knew that she had to find them peace before the power of their spirits ripped her apart.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Following the hulking Houl proved far easier than Evren had expected. The Syndicate thug made what he doubtless believed to be a clever effort to shake pursuers, taking numerous twists and turns, even occasionally glancing over his shoulder. Yet Evren had followed far cleverer, stealthier marks in the past. Houl would be as hard to follow as a hurricane through a field of wheat. From his vantage point on the rooftops, Evren could escape the thug’s notice and avoid most of the chaos in the Artisan’s Tier.

  Right until Houl turned onto Trader’s Way and began the descent to the Cultivator’s Tier.

  Damn it! No way Evren could follow from the rooftops now. Even if his ankle hadn’t been throbbing as fiercely as his face and split lip, he couldn’t get over the wall dividing the Artisan’s Tier from the level below.

  Gritting his teeth in frustration, he clambered down the side of the two-story stone building and dropped into the alley that led toward the main avenue. He hurried onto Trader’s Way, eyes scanning the seething, surging mob for any sign of the towering thug. Thankfully, Houl stood a full head taller than those around him, and his unkempt mop of shaggy hair served as a clear signpost for Evren to follow.

  The sight of the gate sent a shiver down Evren’s spine. The huge iron-banded wooden gates had always stood open, but with a score of Indomitables standing guard. Their bodies now littered the street, staining the golden sandstone with darkening pools of crimson. Skulls crushed, throats slashed, limbs shattered and twisted at gruesome angles. The rioters had stripped their armor and claimed their weapons, leaving nothing but torn cloth and lifeless flesh behind.

  Sorrow washed over Evren. He had no reason to care about these dead soldiers, yet the sight of their broken, discarded bodies filled him with despair. Shalandra had fallen into such barbarism and cruelty, all because of evil men like the Ybrazhe and the Keeper’s Council that controlled them. Yet he, too, had to bear a share of blame. He could have done more, should have done more, to stop the riots before they started.

  When he turned back toward Trader’s Way, ice froze in his lungs. Houl had disappeared.

  Evren’s pulse hammered in his ears as he raced down the broad avenue toward the Cultivator’s Tier. His eyes scanned east and west, searching for any sign of the huge thug. He couldn’t have just vanished; there was nowhere for Houl to go until he reached Commoner’s Row.

  To his relief, he spotted the head of shaggy hair fifty paces below him. Houl reached the main avenue and turned west.

  Just as Evren broke into a run, a cluster of armed, fiery-eyed Earaqi, Mahjuri, and Kabili youths rounded the corner from the east and surged upward. Right toward him.

  The group, more than a hundred strong, flooded Trader’s Way and barred Evren’s path. Their eyes saw past him, fixed on their destination of the Artisan’s Tier. Yet if he tried to shove his way through their ranks, they could turn on him rabidly as they had the Intaji and Zadii.

  Evren cast his eyes about in desperation. He had to catch up to Houl before the thug disappeared. He couldn’t go through the throng, so he had to find another way.

  His only hope lay in the drop-off at the western edge of Trader’s Way.

  Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the edge of the broad avenue. From his position, a few dozen paces from Commoner’s Row, he would only have to drop five or so paces to reach the alley below. He slipped over the lip, lowered his legs as far as they could reach, and jumped.

  His boots squelched in something muddy and malodorous, his left foot slipping out from beneath him. Evren staggered backward and cracked his skull hard against the stone. The world spun wildly around him but he lurched forward, stumbling down the alley as fast as he could. He couldn’t lose Houl!

  Evren broke into a full run, gritting his teeth against the dizziness and the fresh ache in his ankle, shoulder, and lip. Refusing to let the pain slow him, he ducked through a knot of rampaging Kabili, slipped around Earaqi men and women fighting over loot, and burst onto Commoner’s Row. He blinked to bring his vision into focus and scanned the main avenue, his heart hammering a panicked beat in his chest.

  Damn it! He rubbed his eyes to clear the dizziness and looked again, a sinking feeling in his gut.

  No sign of Houl.

  Evren raced out into the middle of the street, abandoning all caution. Houl couldn’t have gotten far. He just needed a glimpse to—

  Got you! A sly smile twisted his lips as he spotted Houl’s shaggy mane disappearing down an alley on the south side of Commoner’s Row. You’re not shaking me that easily, you bastard.

  He rushed across the main avenue and ducked into a narrow street that ran between squat stone houses. Locked doors and windows greeted him, yet a few screams, shouts, and cries echoed throughout the back streets.

  For the better part of an hour, he followed Houl through the back alleys of the Cultivator’s Tier. Evren kept his head down as he trotted, trusting his blood-stained face and the red Earaqi headband encircling his forehead to provide him ample disguise. The rampaging rioters he passed barely paid him heed—they shouted words of encouragement to join them in their plundering. Evren called back noncommittal, unintelligible replies to placate them. Most turned back to their looting with a shrug, not sparing him a second glance.

  With every new cry of pain or terror, the ache in Evren’s heart grew. Instinct screamed at him to help them, to fight off the despoilers. Men, women, even children unwilling to join in the riot suffered at the hands of their fellow Earaqi or the Kabili and Mahjuri that sought their wealth.

  Yet Evren had to close his ears to the cries and his eyes to the suffering. Getting mired in the chaos might save a life or two, but the turmoil would continue in the city at large. His only hope of helping everyone in Shalandra—from the lowest Mahjuri and poorest Kabili to the wealthiest Dhukari—would be to put an end to the Ybrazhe.

  And to do that, I need to find their base of operations. The Syndicate had proven the
mselves adept at establishing hidden bases of operation around the city, moving from one to another as needed. Killian would know about most of them, but at that moment, the blacksmith couldn’t help. He had a battle of his own to fight.

  Worry nagged at the back of Evren’s mind. He tried to push it down. No, Killian can take care of himself. He’d seen what the blacksmith could do with his strange leg brace-turned-weapon; give him a smith’s hammer or any of the swords and fine weapons strewn around the forge, and he’d be downright deadly. With his defenses and reinforced door, he had a better chance of surviving the chaos than most of Shalandra.

  But for how long? Evren tore his eyes from Houl long enough to glance at the sky. The sun had already dropped low toward the western horizon. He had no more than two hours until sunset. Once night descended, he'd have a much harder time tracking the Syndicate thugs. Locating their hideout was his first priority—once he knew where to find them, he could figure out the best way to deal with them.

  Slowly, Evren began to notice a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The sounds of looting, rioting, and plundering fell silent and far behind them, and a tense silence gripped the narrow back alleys. Then he caught sight of a heavy-set man watching the street from a comfortable chair beneath the awning of a house that had escaped the destruction. Another watcher lurked in the shadows of an adjoining alleyway. Both men wore simple farmer clothing and red headbands, but their clubs and swords marked them plainly as Ybrazhe. When Houl approached, they nodded and waved him through without hesitation.

  Well, hello there! Evren gave a wry smile. It seems the Syndicate is keeping the chaos away from their little slice of Shalandra. They had to have a safe house somewhere nearby—one that likely housed Taghban and what remained of their leadership.