Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Imbuka’s eyes widened. “What?” he shrieked. He stared at her in shock.

  Aisha, too, was stunned by what had happened. She’d been a heartbeat from death one moment, then unharmed the next. She could move her arms, her legs, could draw breath unhindered. She hadn’t been burned to cinders by that terrible wall of power.

  Her eyes dropped to the pendant around her neck. The stone and its silver setting felt hot against her chest. When she drew it out, the black gemstone had brightened to a brilliant blue-white that flooded the interior of Imbuka’s shop with a glow, pushing back the shadows. The power coursing through the stone nearly staggered her.

  “No!” Anger flared in Imbuka’s eye—an eye that had lost some of its brightness as he used up the power he’d absorbed from the stolen swords. Light glowed from the fissures in his hands, arms, and face as he summoned another wall of power.

  Aisha gritted her teeth in expectation of agony. The power slammed into her, nearly knocking her from her feet. Lightning sizzled down her arms, through her chest, dug fingers of pure light into her brain. Yet once more, the pain dimmed and retreated an instant later.

  This time, she could more than move her body. The power absorbed into the pendant pushed back against her fatigue, soothed the pain, flooded her muscles with vigor.

  “Imbuka, stop this!” She climbed to her feet “It’s not too late to help me, to help us stop the Iron Warlord. We can find another way to save our people, to save you, a way that doesn’t involve giving evil men the power to destroy Shalandra.”

  Aisha recoiled as she met Imbuka’s eye. Cracks appeared all through his face, like glass shattering beneath a storm of power. When his mouth opened, light streamed from his throat.

  “You’re wrong.” His voice resonated with impossible strength, but it was no longer his alone. The voices of dozens of others—men, women, children—tinged his words. “There is no other way. If there was, I would have found it.” Light leaked from hundreds of fractures around his body, pierced his clothing, poured from his hands as he hurled one final wave of power at her.

  Aisha braced her feet as the power struck, ready for it this time. She gritted her teeth against the surge of pain, but it passed quickly, the lightning absorbed into the pendant. The stone glowed so bright it rivaled the stars in the night sky.

  Imbuka slumped against the counter, his shoulders drooping and his face slack. His eye grew blank, a vacant stare.

  Horror brought a rush of acid to Aisha’s throat. She’d seen that before. The same look had filled her father’s eyes as he lost himself to the madness of the Kish’aa. The Inkuleko had claimed Imbuka, and his mind was Unshackled.

  “I must have it,” he babbled, the voices of the dead adding to his. “It is the only way!”

  He turned a hollow, empty eye on her pendant. Imbuka closed gnarled fingers on one of the swords that lay on the counter. The black steel was inert, the bond with the spirits shattered, but the sharp metal could still kill.

  “Don’t do this!” she shouted in Ghandian. “Please, Imbuka!”

  “It is the only way!” He raised the sword and lunged toward her.

  Aisha’s throat grew thick. “Forgive me.” She thrust her right hand out and drove the blade of her assegai into his chest. Steel pierced bright-colored shuka robes and the bony flesh beneath. The force of the blow stopped Imbuka in his tracks, rocked him backward. He staggered, coughed, and collapsed against the counter once more. The upraised sword slipped from weakening fingers and clattered to the floor beside him. He went to his knees, blood gushing from the wound in his chest. Yet it was no mere crimson—liquid light, the blue-white of the Kish’aa stained his robes.

  Aisha leapt toward the falling shaman and caught his emaciated, twisted form before it struck the ground. “It is done, elder brother,” she said, using the Mhambi word for elders. “Go with the Kish’aa, and may you find the peace and joy of Pharadesi forever more.”

  Imbuka lay in her arms, gasping, bleeding that strange blue-white blood. “It is…the…only way!” The words poured from his mouth, faint, growing weaker with every beat of his dying heart. He stared up at her yet looked through her, his eye vacant and unseeing. A stream of liquid light streamed from his eye and slipped down cracked, weathered cheeks.

  Aisha cradled him as he died. Silent, with only a little gasp of breath, and the light leaking from his body dimmed to darkness

  For long minutes, she could only sit there, clutching his lifeless body. Sorrow rose in her chest, forming a lump in her throat. I’m sorry. She closed her eyes but didn’t stop the tears from flowing. I’m sorry for your pain.

  The gift of a Spirit Whisperer was a double-edged sword. Everything Imbuka had done had been out of fear—the same fear she felt when she used her Umoyahlebe abilities. In the end, it had cost him everything.

  Little sister. A familiar voice echoed around her—not in her ears, but in her mind. Little sister, do not weep for me.

  Aisha opened her eyes and found herself staring at a blue-white form hovering in the air. The same figure cradled in her arms, clad in the same orange, red, and blue Ghandian shuka robes.

  Reaching out, Aisha summoned his spirit into herself. The sudden flare of power sent lightning crackling through her limbs and stole her breath.

  Imbuka appeared before her again, yet he seemed younger. No, not younger. His face still bore the lines of age, his shoulders hunched and fingers gnarled. Less burdened, Aisha realized. Death had lifted the weight from his body and wiped the shadows from his face.

  I owe you much, little sister. A bright smile broadened Imbuka’s ghostly face. Pharadesi and my final rest awaits. But before I can pass on, I have one last task to fulfill.

  Aisha nodded. The Kish’aa always remained until their final mission had been completed, their bonds to the mortal world severed.

  To make certain our people, the Umoyahlebe are saved? His desire to help Spirit Whisperers flooded her, overpowering, a burden that had weighed on him in life. And now, in death, it passed to her.

  That. Imbuka bowed his head. And to give you the advice I should have offered in life.

  Confusion furrowed Aisha’s brow.

  There is something you must know about this place. Imbuka’s eyes locked with hers. The gift we share was first harnessed by the Ancient Ones that built Shalandra. The power of the Kish’aa was instrumental in the city’s creation, and in its future.

  The revelation stunned Aisha. The Serenii were Spirit Whisperers? It seemed impossible, yet she’d seen it for herself at the Vault of Ancients.

  But his final words leapt out at her. What do you mean, instrumental for the future of Shalandra?

  The Final Destruction. Imbuka’s spirit filled her with a sense of foreboding. Or was that urgency? She couldn’t understand it, but there was no mistaking the ominous feeling emanating within her mind. That is why the Iron Warlord wanted me. He thrust a gnarled finger toward her chest. And you, if he ever learned the truth.

  Aisha recoiled. What for?

  Imbuka seemed not to have heard her. I did not tell him about you, little sister. But you must keep your gift a secret. For he will come for you. You are critical to his plans.

  What plans? Aisha demanded. Why would he want me? She knew it had something to do with getting into the Vault of Ancients, but she needed to know more.

  I have told you all I can. My time has come to go to Pharadesi. Imbuka’s spirit fixed her with a bright smile. Until we meet in the beyond, little sister.

  He turned away and drifted toward the door. The blue-white light began to fade, his form dissipating into mist.

  Wait! Aisha called.

  The faint, glowing remnants of Imbuka’s spirit faced her.

  What about Hallar’s Warriors? The militants had left his shop mere minutes earlier. Can you tell me what they are doing with the swords?

  A small voice whispered in her ear. The blades of the anointed are to be unleashed against those guarding the South Gate.


  Gratitude surged within Aisha. Thank you, elder brother! She bowed her head in reverence. May you find peace in the arms of your ancestors.

  And may the spirits guide your steps and fill your mouth with wisdom.

  With those final words, Imbuka’s spirit faded, his spark of life fading until only darkness remained. Aisha was once more alone in the ruined house, kneeling on the floor, the shaman’s emaciated body in her arms.

  She set him gently down and climbed to her feet. Imbuka had gone to Pharadesi, but many more spirits remained within Aisha, stored in the pendant. Hundreds, thousands of those slain by the black steel swords and the Keeper’s Blades themselves.

  As Aisha’s eyes fell on the swords atop the counter, scores of Kish’aa flared to life within her. Their pleas and demands to be restored flooded her mind. Striding over to the weapons, Aisha stretched out a hand and summoned the spirits from the pendant.

  Sparks of blue-white light sizzled through her veins, racing down her arms and dancing between her fingers. Shishak’s spirit was the first to burst free, filling the night with a blinding brilliance as she leapt toward her sword. The black steel blade absorbed the spark and once more began to glow—a faint light, visible only to her eyes.

  Ten more spirits leapt from her fingers, all Keeper’s Blades rejoined with the swords they’d been bound to in life and death.

  Yet the spirits of those slain by the swords were no longer bound. Their sparks danced between Aisha’s fingers, crackling like brilliant lightning, before once again settling back into the pendant. Imbuka had shattered their tether and set them free, but they had not yet found peace. They filled her mind with their insistence; they wanted vengeance against the ones that had disturbed them.

  Aisha would give it to them.

  Sheathing her assegai, Aisha turned and raced from the ruins of Imbuka’s shop. Her steps led westward, through the back alleys, toward Trader’s Way. The back alleys of the Cultivator’s Tier were all but empty at this late hour, yet Aisha could feel the tension thick in the air. She kept a wary eye on her surroundings as she ran; rioters and looters could appear at any moment, and she’d be damned if she let them slow her.

  She had to reach the South Gate in time to stop Hallar’s Warriors. There, the spirits would be avenged.

  The power of the Kish’aa flooded her tired body with energy, fueled her muscles to greater speeds as she ran. The darkened alleys and lanes flashed by in a shadowy blur. The Earaqi not consumed by the violence huddled in their homes, too terrified to light lamps or candles.

  She could feel the tug of the spirits, pulling her down toward the Slave’s Tier. She had no need for their guidance, not when she knew where Hallar’s Warriors would strike. She simply had to be there, and they would come to her. The dead would have their vengeance, but it fell to Aisha to save the living.

  Down Trader’s Way she ran, her legs pumping, her hair flying in the breeze behind her. The blue-white lights of spirits—those slain by the Indomitables, fallen in the riots, and claimed by the Azure Rot—brightened the night and guided her steps.

  Her gut twisted as she reached the Way of Chains and found Kish’aa clustered by the thousands. Bodies lay strewn all across the streets—some clad in the ragged clothing of the low-castes, others in the leather armor of Hallar’s Warriors. Many wore black steel armor, their khopeshes or flammards nowhere in sight—likely ripped from their lifeless fingers by the rioters. Blood turned the dust of the streets to a grisly ochre mud.

  The cluster of corpses grew thicker as she approached the South Gate. Hundreds lay across heavy barricades—overturned wagons, shattered carts, hay bales, furniture, and more—that had been erected to bar the road. The South Gate had been built to keep enemies out, but the battle had raged against enemies from within.

  “Stop where you are, in the name of the Pharus!” came a shout. A dozen black-armored figures rose from behind one barricade and pointed drawn khopeshes at her.

  Aisha slowed but didn’t stop until she stood five paces from the first barricade. “Wait!” She raised her hands high, showing them empty. “I come in peace, bearing a warning of impending danger.”

  Low mutters echoed from among the Indomitables behind the barricade.

  A new figure stepped into view. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and angular face, he wore the spiked plate mail of a Keeper’s Blade. “What warning?” His voice was as cold and hard as the glare he leveled at her.

  “Hallar’s Warriors are planning to attack at any moment!” Aisha replied. “They’ve armed themselves with swords looted from the tombs of the Keeper’s Blades and they’re on their way here right now!”

  The Blade’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”

  Aisha ignored the question. “You need to get your men ready for an attack! The enemy could—”

  “I said, how?” The man cut her off with a shout. “Prove that you’re not just here to deceive us, and maybe we could…” He trailed off as a new sound filled the night. Chanting, shouting.

  “Bring on the Final Destruction!” The words grew louder with every heartbeat. “Bring on the Final Destruction!”

  Pain flared within Aisha as the spirits burned bright. The dead clamored for vengeance with such intensity her head threatened to burst.

  Aisha spun in time to see a wall of torch-bearing, armed men marching down Trader’s Way toward the South Gate. Even as she reached for her weapons, more enemies boiled from the shadows of the nearby alleys and raced toward her.

  The attack on the South Gate had begun, and she stood alone, trapped between the Indomitables and the enemy.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A wordless cry of rage and grief tore from Issa’s throat as the crowd trampled her grandfather. Raising her flammard high, she charged the throng of rioters and Ybrazhe flooding the training yard. Her sword flashed in the darkness, a glimmer of black steel that blurred through the night, too fast for any mortal eye to follow. She cut down her enemies with great, hewing blows that lopped off heads, severed limbs, and hacked through flesh and bone.

  The thrill of battle sang in her veins, a song of death that drowned out all rational thought. Men leapt toward her, swinging swords. Steel clanged off her armor and helmet, hard enough to set her head ringing and bruise her flesh. Yet she felt none of it. She felt nothing but white hot rage that scoured every shred of pain from her body.

  Her enemies died by the dozen. Their blood stained her face, splattered her armor, turned the ground beneath her boots to mud. Bodies piled high around her. Yet still she fought on, hewing down one after another, a whirlwind of destruction that could no more be stopped than the Four-Bladed Winds that ripped through the Yawmani Mountains.

  The blood rushing in her ears drowned out the shouts of her foes, rendered the cries from all around her inaudible. None of it mattered. Ybrazhe thugs hacked and chopped at her, but she was a wall of death and flying steel. All that mattered was to get to her grandfather’s side.

  She never saw her enemies’ determination break. One moment, a wall of solid flesh and edged blades faced her, foes attacking from all sides. The next, her swinging flammard met only empty air as the rioters fled her wrath.

  Issa hated them for fleeing. She wanted to keep killing until every one of the cowards lay dead. She hacked down those trying to escape, not caring that she struck them down from behind. Those few that faced her died just the same. Blood slid down her arms, soaked into the cracks in her armor, and turned her grip slick. And still her arms moved, her sword rising and falling in the steady rhythm of a farmer scything wheat.

  Suddenly, there were no more. The last Ybrazhe thug fell to her huge blade. The last rioter fled and disappeared beyond the smithy’s wall. Issa stood alone before the wagon, with only her rage, hate, and pounding heart for company.

  The battle rage receded slowly, leaving her trembling, gasping for air. She blinked and staggered, her mind reeling. Her sword seemed to have grown too heavy to lift and dragged down her
arms. She had no strength left.

  She didn’t dare turn; she couldn’t face the sight of her grandfather lying dead. Yet she had to see him.

  Hope burst to life within her as she caught sight of her grandmother sitting beside her grandfather. Saba’s face had gone white with pain and blood loss, but he clutched Savta’s hand in a strong grip.

  Issa’s sword fell from numb fingers. “Saba!” She raced toward them on leaden legs and threw herself to her knees beside her prone grandfather.

  “Issa, nechda.” A smile split Nytano’s bloodstained face. “The Long Keeper smiles on us again. He has brought you safely back to us.”

  He reached a gauntleted hand toward her, and she took it, squeezing so tight the metal creaked. Yet the sight of his bloodstained armor, helmet, and sword brought back the questions she’d pushed from her mind.

  “How…?” Confusion and fatigue stole her breath, rendered her mind sluggish. “What…?”

  She could find no words. The evidence of her eyes seemed impossible. Her grandparents wore the armor and wielded the sword of Keeper’s Blades, but how? They were Earaqi, simple farmers and servants. It made no sense to find them thus, to witness their breathtaking skill with weapons they should never have wielded. Weapons reserved for servants of the Long Keeper.

  Her Saba’s eyes went to the woman cradling his head. “Aleema, we must tell her.”

  “Hush, Nytano.” She pressed a hand against his side to stanch the flow of blood. “It is not the time for—”

  “For me, there will be no more time.” He reached a hand up to stroke his wife’s face, pushed aside a lock of her hair. “The Long Keeper comes for me.”

  “No!” Aleema’s jaw took on the stubborn set Issa knew so well. “Do not speak so, my love.”