Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  Got you!

  She’d known that Kellas would think himself clever for anticipating her maneuver. He’d have come to the same realization she had: only a fool would try the same maneuver twice, so she’d try to outthink him by doing that. He’d simply outthought himself—and, in doing so, given her a fighting chance at succeeding.

  Kellas’ triumph turned to horror as the ten-man company raced toward him. Enyera made no move to sprint either right or left. Issa saw the moment he realized that he’d split his forces in an attempt to trap her, and now left his position vulnerable.

  To his credit, he managed to block her right-handed sword strike. His flammard was far heavier than the Indomitable blade she’d scooped up, so he’d have a chance of defeating her in a duel. But this was no duel. This was battle, quick, brutal, and efficient. Her shorter sword and the truncheon in her left hand gave her all the advantage she needed.

  Even as Kellas batted aside her right-handed strike, Issa brought her club up and slammed it into the side of his head. Kellas staggered, swinging wildly, but Issa deflected the blow with her sword. She barreled into him with enough force to send him staggering. He crashed to the sands, taking two more trainees down in tangled heap of limbs.

  Issa almost paused—she wanted nothing more than to whale on Kellas, unleash her frustrations on the arrogant Dhukari. Yet if she did, their line would slow and the attack would fail. They had gotten through and their only hope of victory would be to capitalize on their momentum, even if that meant leaving Kellas unpunished.

  Issa’s heart leapt as she drove on. The third line gave way before the force of their charge, and now they had only one line left.

  Tannard’s line.

  Hope turned sour in Issa’s mouth as Tannard brought his sword up to a ready position. She’d never seen that stance; his blow could come from high or low, right or left. He wielded his own blade, honed to a razor sharp edge, backed by the power and skill of an Invictus.

  And he prepared to meet her head on, his face as hard as stone, a cruel glint in the gaze he fixed on her.

  Please let this work! A single thought, edged with desperation, was all she had time for.

  With a wordless cry, she brought her stolen Indomitable blade whipping around. In the same instant, Tannard stepped forward into a thrust—the one attack Issa hadn’t expected. Her blood turned to ice as she realized the tip of his five-foot blade would punch through her padded armor, skin, organs, and spine. She had no time to block or dodge; she could only twist her body and hope she survived.

  Pain skewered through her abdomen as the length of Tannard’s blade laid open her torso. She half-expected to fall, blood splashing out of her severed intestines onto the sand. Yet even as she staggered backward, hand clapped to her bleeding belly, a dim part of her realized that Tannard hadn’t aimed to kill. He’d turned the tip of his sword aside at the last moment to wound her, deep enough to drive home his disdain but not enough to kill.

  But that searing pain was worth it.

  Enyera soared over her head, propelled by the strong arms of the two trainees she’d used to anchor the rear of their formation. The light Mahjuri girl, clad only in light trousers and a padded jerkin, seemed to hang suspended in the air for a long second.

  Issa’s heart stopped as she watched Enyera stretch out her arm, the girl’s slim fingers closing around the pennant.

  The clarion call of the trumpet was the sweetest sound Issa had ever heard.

  The clash of weapons and the cries of the trainees seemed to go suddenly silent. Issa heard nothing but that high, ringing note and the blood pounding in her ears. The world faded around her until only she and Tannard remained.

  The Invictus’ face revealed nothing—no disappointment, anger, pride, or his usual contempt. He simply nodded and said, “The battle is yours.”

  Issa wanted to weep, shout, laugh, but she forced herself to stand still and meet Tannard’s gaze. “Thank you.”

  That was it. Every curse she’d wanted to hurl, every bit of rage she’d wanted to unload on him, all faded away in that moment of triumph. He’d tried to break her and failed. That realization was all she needed.

  “Get yourself cleaned up,” he said, his voice brusque as ever. “For your reward, you have the honor of standing guard in the Palace of Golden Eternity tonight.”

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  Silence reigned for a long moment, shattered by the cries and cheers rising from nine throats. Enyera rose to her feet, pennant clutched in her hand, and held it aloft.

  Issa’s company pressed in around her, hands clapping her back, their pain wiped away by exultation.

  In that moment, Issa felt as if she would shatter. Not from exhaustion, anguish, or defeat, but from the joy swelling like a thundercloud within her. She threw back her head and laughed, and her company laughed with her.

  Against all odds, despite facing an impossible task, they had won. More than that. In her personal battle against Tannard, she had finally triumphed.

  And victory tasted sweet.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Evren’s brow furrowed. What the bloody hell is Snarth doing here? More importantly, who are these men?

  He climbed higher until he reached a more comfortable perch. Though he couldn’t see from his new position, he could listen in on the conversation within the room.

  “We had a deal!” Snarth’s voice held a high-pitched, plaintive whine. “I gave you what you asked for. You agreed I’d get a place in the Syndicate, but not as a low-level street ruffler, but a proper Crewman.”

  “We did have a deal.” The voice that answered held a gruff note, deep with gravel and disdain. “But what you’ve brought me isn’t enough. If you want in, you need to do better.”

  “What more do you want from me, Annat?” Snarth sounded ready to cry. “I just know how he runs all of us in the streets. He doesn’t let any of us see where his fortune is stored or what he writes in that book of his. But you can just ask him about it when you take him down. Torture it out of him if you have to.”

  “Sounds like you’re expecting to be rewarded for making us do all the hard work,” replied the man, Annat. “If you want what you ask for, you’ll have to do better.”

  Evren’s mind raced. He’s talking about Killian. He was fairly certain Snarth was working for this Syndicate, either as a plant in Killian’s Mumblers or a defector. Either way, he planned to betray Killian to these people.

  Anger surged within Evren. He had no true love for Killian—the man had helped him get his current position within Suroth’s household likely out of self-interest—and he owed the blacksmith nothing. Yet Evren had suffered too many betrayals in his life, both in the temple and on the streets. The thought of such treachery set his blood boiling.

  “Tell you what,” Annat continued, his words softening to a haggling tone, “you want in as a Crewman, you get your hands on Killian’s book. Or, at the very least, find out where he keeps it.”

  “He’s too careful,” Snarth whined. “He never lets anyone—”

  “The Syndicate don’t give two shites of a horse’s arse for your excuses.” Annat’s voice rose to a snarl. “Your place in our ranks must be earned. We are poised to take power over this city. The Pharus will soon lie dead, and in the chaos that ensues, we will claim the Artisan’s Tier for our own. But we cannot have that accursed blacksmith and his Mumblers roaming the streets. That book of secrets holds the key to Killian’s power in this city. Until you get it and deliver it to us, you are not worthy to call yourself one of us.”

  “But—”

  Evren didn’t hear the rest of Snarth’s protest. His stomach lurched as the stone beneath his right hand crumbled free of the sandstone cliff. Acting on instinct, he released his grip on the falling rocks and reached for another handhold. Even as he regained his balance, his eyes flew wide as the stones clattered atop the rubble and debris littering the alleyway. Right atop the discarded remains
of a cracked metal pot. To Evren’s ears, the noise was deafening.

  “What was that?” Annat’s voice came from within the room, filled with suspicion.

  Without hesitation, Evren began climbing down the cliff face as fast as he could. He’d just reached the ground when he heard Annat’s angry shout from overhead.

  “Spy! Get him!”

  Adrenaline surged in Evren’s veins as he sprinted toward the mouth of the alley. His only hope of escape lay in reaching the street before—

  Two thugs appeared around the corner and raced into the alleyway, their eyes fixed on him. Evren caught the glint of steel as they began drawing their belt daggers.

  He had a single heartbeat to decide his course of action—draw his jambiya or try to bull-rush them. If he got bogged down in a knife fight, he might not get out before Annat and anyone else within the building arrived to reinforce the guards.

  Evren leapt up onto an overturned wooden crate and shoved off with all the strength in his legs, hurtling through the air toward the man. His right fist drew back for a flying punch aimed at the thug to his left. Not the smartest blow in a brawl, but the best choice for taking down an enemy quick and dirty.

  His fist crashed into the man’s jaw with teeth-shattering force. Evren’s knuckles, hardened by years of bare-handed fighting, protested at the collision with the jawbone but didn’t break. The thug’s head snapped around and he stumbled backward, sagging into unconsciousness.

  The second guard had managed to draw his dagger and swiped at Evren, but Evren’s momentum carried him past faster than the thug had anticipated. He tensed in expectation of pain yet none came. Instead, he heard a quiet rip as the strike tore cloth.

  Then he was past the guard and racing east on the Way of Chains, toward Auctioneer’s Square. He had to get up to the higher tiers, hopefully high enough that the thugs wouldn’t be able to follow him.

  Angry shouts echoed behind him but he didn’t dare look back. The thugs in the alley, caught up in the rush of battle, wouldn’t remember his face. Annat, Snarth, and any others pursuing him would only see his retreating back. His dull street clothing blended into the shouting throng in front of the auctioneer’s blocks and would make it easy to hide among the crowds on the Cultivator’s and Artisan’s Tiers. His headband gave him easy access to the uppermost tiers, and he could be back in the uniform of Suroth’s servants as soon as he returned to the Arch-Guardian’s mansion. Once he lost his pursuers, their chances of actually hunting him down bordered on slim to none.

  Yet escape wouldn’t prove as easy as he’d hoped. The shouts and cries from the men behind him matched his pace. He was fast, but they knew the city better than he. Worse, he couldn’t skirt the crowds—he’d stand out far too much—so he’d be forced to slither through the crush of people in Auctioneer’s Square. He’d have to move slower, be more cautious who he shoved aside for fear of drawing attention.

  I have to find another way! The back streets of the Slave’s Tier tended to be fairly empty at this time of day. He could use those to evade the crowds.

  He ducked out of sight into an alleyway and glanced over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit. Ice ran down his spine as he caught sight of Annat striding down the Way of Chains, flanked by a dozen bull-necked thugs.

  “Spread out,” Annat snarled. “I want him found and brought to me now!”

  Heart pounding, Evren glanced around for any avenue of escape. He had no choice but to flee deeper into the back alleyways as Annat’s thugs surged down the side streets. His gut tightened as he caught sight of more men cutting off the way ahead and behind him. He’d be in serious trouble if he allowed himself to be boxed in.

  He shot a glance at the towering sandstone cliff. The only way out is up.

  The cliff face rose eighty feet—fifty to the level of the Cultivator’s Tier and another thirty for the height of the tier’s wall—but the stone buildings of the Slave’s Tier stood just fifteen or twenty feet tall. If he could just get up the cliff and onto the rooftops, he could hide out until his pursuers passed or gave up the search. He might even be able to find a way of escape that way. The Hunter had used the rooftops of Voramis as his own personal highway—Evren might be able to do the same.

  He glanced at the street and, finding his pursuers momentarily distracted searching nearby homes, raced toward the cliff face. Hand over hand, he climbed as quickly as he could. The rough stone gave him plenty of holds but tended to crumble beneath his weight. He had to pick a careful path else risk getting stuck with no way up, down, or to the side. It took him a full two minutes to make the climb.

  His heart clenched as his fingers closed around the stone lip of the roof and he pulled himself up. The thatching creaked and rustled beneath his feet, sagging precariously, but to his relief it held. He tested with his feet until he found a section that seemed sturdier, supported by the roof beams, and raced up the gentle stope toward the ridge. He hauled himself over and down the other side just as a pair of thugs turned into the alleyway he’d just vacated.

  Climbing down the roof proved easy work, and the stone wall provided him with solid footing to make the leap to the next roof over. Yet as he scrambled over the second house, he found himself confronted by an alleyway.

  The gap was less than six feet wide, a jump he could make any day. Yet two of Annat’s thugs stood below, kicking through debris and muttering curses. Evren waiting, heart hammering, until they left and counted to thirty before making the leap.

  Two more roofs, then another alley, this one wider than the first. He barely made the eight-foot jump and had to throw himself flat onto the thatching to avoid falling backward. His mouth was dry, his palms sweaty as he continued his rooftop trek.

  The next alleyway was narrow, but the roof on the far side had crumbled away, revealing the sways and spars that held up the thatching.

  Keeper’s teeth! Jaw clenched in frustration, Evren paused to consider his course of action. He could see the roof beams, warped by sun and rain yet solid enough to hold his weight. If he didn’t get his leap just right, he would crash through roof.

  The caution saved his life.

  Just as he prepared to make the leap, two figures appeared at the mouth of the alley and set about searching it. Evren threw himself flat on the rooftop, heart hammering. Bloody hell, that was too close. If he’d attempted the jump, they would have spotted him for sure.

  The thatch was hot and bristly against his face, yet it had the sweet smell of grass and hay. He glanced up at the bright sun. It had to be the first or second hour after noon—the trek to the Artisan’s Tier had taken the better part of two hours, and he’d followed Snarth down here to the Slave’s Tier for more than an hour. If he didn’t lose his pursuers soon, he wouldn’t have time to get to Killian’s before racing back to Suroth’s mansion.

  Whatever Samall and Kuhar had planned for Lady Briana was happening tonight, and Evren had to return as soon as possible to at least try to warn the bodyguards. But he felt Killian deserved a warning as well. More as a professional courtesy than any genuine concern, truth be told. If he got to Killian in time, the blacksmith would owe him.

  He had enough time, barely. If only these damned thugs would hurry up and get out of here! They seemed far more interested in kicking through the litter covering the alley than looking up at the rooftops. I need to get out of here now, else I won’t have time to warn Killian and get back to Suroth’s mansion.

  Time dragged on for what felt like an eternity, but was likely no more than three or four minutes, before the thugs concluded their search. Evren breathed a silent sigh of relief as they hurried away. He waited another minute to be certain they’d gone before standing from his hiding place. Without hesitation, he made the leap.

  He landed hard on the beam, but to his horror he found the nails holding it in place had rusted away. The beam swayed and creaked beneath his weight. Evren had to throw himself to another section of roof just before the wood crumbled beneath him. His gut clen
ched as he watched the patch of grass and reed thatch sag inward and collapse into the house. Thankfully, the attic stood empty. Heart in his throat, he listened for any indication that he’d been overheard. When no cries or shouts echoed from the streets below, he continued his trek across the rooftops of the Slave’s Tier.

  He made far slower progress than he’d like. Though Auctioneer’s Square stood just a few hundred yards from Death Row, he had to pause to check the streets for his pursuers before leaping over the alleys. By the time he decided he’d covered enough ground to evade the thugs, he’d lost at least an hour.

  Clambering down the wall, he slipped down the alleyway toward the side streets. Relief flooded him. No sign of the thugs. He raced down the street and ducked into the press of people on the Way of Chains. The throng would give him ample cover. He’d spent years slipping through thick crowds unseen. This time, instead of picking pockets and lifting purses, he only had to concentrate on escaping his pursuers.

  He had just broken free of the crowd and headed toward Death Row when he felt a sense of danger prickling at the back of his neck. His heart sank as he caught sight of four hard-faced, thick-necked men guarding the road up to the Cultivator’s Tier and freedom.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kodyn couldn’t believe it. He’d been prepared for a secret code, like the Illusionist’s script used to encode the map of Lord Auslan’s vaults his mother had stolen from Duke Phonnis.

  But not empty paper. He turned the scroll over in his hands, held it up to the light. Nothing. The same rolled-up papyrus utterly devoid of even a single line or character.

  Keeper’s teeth! Anger surged within him.

  Aisha frowned, confusion on her face. “You think Ennolar made a mistake?”