Crucible of Fortune: An Epic Fantasy Young Adult Adventure (Heirs of Destiny Book 2)

by Andy Peloquin

  “Briana and her bodyguards.” Anger simmered bright and hot in Evren’s chest. “The least you could have done is let us know that the Ybrazhe were watching their house and sending word to the Gatherers.”

  Killian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re certain?”

  Now it was Evren’s turn to be confused. He didn’t know? Since the moment they’d met, Killian had always had information. He’d appeared so savvy, so in control with his finger on the city’s pulse. Yet Snarth’s betrayal had proven that he wasn’t as well-connected as he wanted people to believe.

  “That’s how I found the Ybrazhe hiding out in the mill,” Evren said. “I followed their watcher from Briana’s house and heard Annat telling the fellow to send word to ‘those idiots in the tombs’ of Briana’s whereabouts.”

  “Damn!” Killian clenched his fists. “So the Gatherers are working with the Syndicate, as you said.”

  “Congratulations to me for putting the pieces together.” Evren growled. “That information’s going to be useless if we can’t get out of here.” He slipped toward the window and peered out.

  Annat stood in the street, shouting orders Evren couldn’t hear at his men. Evren’s gut clenched as a trio of thugs strode toward them. The flaming torches and clay jugs in their hands could only mean more trouble.

  “Tell me you’ve a back way out,” he barked at Killian. “Some clever way to escape.” He scanned the room: a large square chamber strewn with comfortable couches and cots, with a small door off to one side that led to a storage room. Evren caught sight of an old man huddled in the shadows of the back room. Five men and women, all wearing headbands of Zadii white, lay stretched out on the couches and cots, dazed and entranced by the thick clouds of smoke that emanated from the pipes at their lips.

  “Not this time.” Killian’s voice was grim. “There’s only one way in and out of the Smokehouse. Deadeners tend to get paranoid; call it a side effect of their poison of choice.”

  “Which begs the question, what exactly are you doing in a place like this?” Evren shot a sardonic glance at the blacksmith. “If I’m going to die trapped in an opiate den, I’d like to know why.”

  “Information.” Killian met his gaze. “On Councilor Angrak. Turns out he’s connected to the Ybrazhe—he’s the owner of that damned house on the Cultivator’s Tier. Then I find out he’s being elected to the Council and kicked out Suroth’s daughter, which gets me thinking of what the Council wants from him. A bit of digging and I find out he’s been falsifying the records of the shipments he sends north. Only one reason to do that.”

  “Shalanite,” Evren finished.

  “Damn right!” Killian’s brow furrowed. “And I even got my hands on some proof. By itself, a sample of shalanite dust scraped up from one of Angrak’s wagons won’t do much, but—”

  “But if we can put it together with more pieces, it might be useful.” Evren’s head bobbed. “But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here!”

  Killian shrugged. “I came to speak to a Reckoner about a forged document. Shame that he chooses tonight to stay in his temple.”

  “You have proof that Angrak owns the house the Ybrazhe were staying in and the sample of the shalanite, yes?” Evren asked.

  Killian nodded. “Someplace safe.”

  “Good, then let’s get the hell out of here.” Evren turned back toward the window. That might prove easier said than done, given the number of Syndicate thugs outside had risen to nearly a score.

  “Killian!” Annat stood at the head of his thugs, a bared short sword in his hand. “Save us all time and come out. You and that boy of yours. Do that, and I’ll let your Mumblers live. Hell, I’ll even recruit them to the Syndicate myself. That way, you can die knowing they won’t starve.”

  “You do know that stone walls don’t burn well, right?” Killian called back.

  “Maybe, but thatch sure does.” Annat grinned and hefted a clay jug. “Especially with the right fuel. Then again, someone worked hard to make this oil, and I’d hate to waste it when you could just surrender and put an end to this here and now.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Killian snorted. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take my chances inside here.”

  “Suit yourself.” Annat shrugged. “Light it up, lads.”

  Evren whirled on Killian. “You know we’ll die from the smoke before the flames reach us, right?” Back in Vothmot, he’d come dangerously close to dying in an eerily similar predicament—only the Mistress’ luck had enabled him to get out in time. “Plus, there are all these people who will die, too.”

  Killian nodded. “I know. I won’t give the bastards a chance.”

  To Evren’s stunned surprise, he bent and unfastened the brace from around his left leg. With deft fingers, he snapped the various pieces together in a new configuration. Evren’s eyes widened as the man straightened and hefted a weapon that looked like three long rods attached by steel cables.

  The blacksmith smiled at Evren’s dumbfounded expression. “I’m full of surprises. Like this.” He drew a long, thin object from within his clothes. Twin arms snapped out from the long, straight body, and Evren found himself staring at a handheld crossbow like the one the Mumblers had pointed at him in Killian’s forge. The stock of the crossbow actually opened and a spring-loaded mechanism set a tiny bolt into the cradle.

  Killian shot him a glance. “Ready?”

  Evren nodded. He reached for his throwing dagger, only to find his bracer empty. Damn it! His mind flashed back to the moment he’d hurled the blade at the thug aiming a crossbow out of The Banded Brothers’ window at Kodyn’s back. I forgot to get the throwing dagger he promised. Cursing, he drew his jambiya. He’d have to go for close-quarters combat without the advantage of a ranged weapon to take down an enemy.

  “Get those locks open. Then on my signal, throw open the door.” Killian spoke without turning from the window. “Three, two, now!”

  Evren had just opened the deadbolt when the blacksmith barked his command. He hauled the door open, coming face to face with four thugs winding up to hurl the clay jars. Caught by surprise, the brutes paused mid-swing.

  “Go!” Killian shouted. He leveled his crossbow at the nearest archer and pulled the trigger. A moment later, he loosed again, sending another spring-loaded bolt hurtling through the darkness. The first crossbow-wielding thug’s cry of pain had barely faded before the second brute grunted and collapsed.

  Annat cried. “Get the blacksmith! Kill the kid!”

  But Evren was out the door and charging toward the nearest thugs, Killian was a step behind. As Evren waded into battle, fists and daggers flying, he caught a glimpse of Killian laying into the thugs with that strange triple staff.

  The blacksmith wielded it like a farmer flailing wheat, but the heavy steel weapon threshed flesh and bone rather than sun-dried stalks of grain. Killian wove a wall of spinning metal, his moves smooth and graceful even with his limp leg. The whipping triple staff cracked a thug’s skull, shattered a second’s nose, and brought down a third and fourth with a sweeping blow to their legs.

  “Take them down!” Annat’s angry shout pierced the grunts and cries of his men.

  More Syndicate thugs broke off from the group and raced toward the battling blacksmith, wielding swords, daggers, and clubs. But Killian didn’t fight alone. Evren’s jambiya struck out with short, brutal slashes that opened wrists, forearms, throats, hands, any flesh he could reach. The long blades had enough heft to deflect or block the thugs’ baton strikes. Years spent fighting in the Master’s Temple, on the streets of Vothmot, and in the Hunter’s training ring had honed Evren’s reflexes. He spun, dodged, or twisted out of the path of blows, his punches and dagger strikes landing with ruthless precision. Within the space of a dozen heartbeats, six Syndicate thugs lay bleeding, groaning, or unconscious in the street, felled by Evren’s fists and Killian’s triple staff.

  “By the Long Keeper, it’s just one crippled blacksmith and a boy!” Annat drew a
long sword from beneath his cloak and charged Killian, the remaining twenty or so thugs on his heels.

  Evren spun, seized Killian’s sleeve, and hauled him away. “Run!” he shouted.

  He raced up the alley and shoved Killian around the corner. The blacksmith stumbled and sagged, his knee giving out. Evren used the man’s momentum to shove him into a dark space beneath a low-hanging roof.

  “Stay!” he hissed at the man, then took off up the street at a dead sprint. He had led the Syndicate to the blacksmith’s hiding place, so it was only fitting that he lead them away.

  He slowed until he was certain the Syndicate thugs caught sight of him. “This way, Killian!” he shouted as loud as he could and threw himself down another alleyway. He had to hope his ruse worked. As long as the thugs didn’t look too closely at the place where he’d stashed Killian, he could trust the blacksmith to seize the opportunity to hide. The chorus of angry shouts echoing behind him filled him with hope.

  He’d gotten Killian out alive and made up for his mistake. Now, he needed to get back to Hailen, Kodyn, and the others with the news of what Killian had found: another nail for Angrak’s coffin.

  But first, I’ve got to get rid of these damned thugs!

  A fierce grin split his face and he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Come on, Killian!”

  Let’s see how they fare on a merry chase around the city. After years of dodging the street gangs and the Wardens of the Mount in Vothmot, he knew he could outrun his pursuers.

  Fierce laughter bubbled from his lips as he shot a glance over his shoulder. Catch me if you can, you bastards!

  Chapter Forty

  The moment after Issa, Hykos, and the Indomitables disappeared from view, Aisha raced inside the house. She threw her arms around Kodyn and hugged him tight. After a moment, she broke off and shoved him hard. “You idiot!” she shouted. “What the hell were you thinking, charging the door like that?”

  “I could have killed you,” Rothin growled from behind Kodyn. The man sat in one of the hard-backed wooden chairs, teeth clenched as he pressed a cloth to a wound in his upper leg.

  “I did what I had to do.” Stubborn defiance sparkled in Kodyn’s eyes and his jaw took on an adamant set. “They were about to rush the door. I couldn’t let them get to Briana.”

  Aisha sucked in a breath. She’d been so focused on the Kish’aa and the Gatherers that she’d completely forgotten about the real reason they’d been here.

  “Briana!” She rushed up the stairs, Kodyn a few steps behind her. They burst through the door, but Aisha skidded to a halt at the sight of Hailen standing in front of Briana. He held a naked dagger outthrust toward them, jaw clenched, eyes wary and defiant. Yet, as he recognized them, he seemed to deflate, relief visible on his face, and he lowered the dagger.

  “Kodyn!” Briana’s voice rang with fear, and her eyes flew wide. “Aisha!” She darted around Hailen and threw her arms around the two of them. A tremor ran through her body but her voice held only a hint of quaver.

  “You’re safe now,” Aisha told her. “The Gatherers are driven off, thanks to Issa and her company.”

  “Issa?” Briana broke off the hug, confusion in her eyes.

  “She showed up with a patrol of Indomitables and another Keeper’s Blade just in the nick of time,” Kodyn explained. He turned to Aisha, his brow furrowed. “You, too.”

  The look in his eyes told Aisha that he didn’t buy her story of following the Gatherers into the tomb, but he wouldn’t press. Not yet. The time would come, and soon. She owed him the truth, no matter how crazy it sounded.

  “But it looks like you had things under control.” Kodyn turned to Hailen and held out a hand. “Once again, it seems like we owe you thanks for helping protect Briana.”

  Hailen sheathed his dagger and gripped Kodyn’s outstretched hand. “It’s my job, right?” He gave them a wry smile. “We’re all in this together.” His eyes went past Kodyn to the doorway, and a shadow flashed across his face.

  Aisha placed a hand on the boy’s shoulders. “If he’s not back, it’s for a damned good reason.”

  After a moment of hesitation, Hailen nodded, the worry leaving his expression. “Yeah, Evren can look after himself.” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself more than them.

  A sharp intake of breath snapped Aisha’s attention to the window. There, her eyes fell on Briana, who stood staring down at the street below. “So many!”

  Aisha glanced out the window, and her gut tightened as she caught sight of the blue-white figures hovering over the bodies of the dead Gatherers. The dead turned toward her, filling her mind with their cries for vengeance—against her and her friends, the ones responsible for their deaths. The malice and hate glittering in their eyes sent a shudder down her spine.

  In that moment, the gravity of what had happened came crashing down on Aisha’s shoulders. She hadn’t just heard or spoken to the Kish’aa—she’d used their power. Too much, perhaps. A sudden fatigue thrummed within her muscles and when she stared down at her hands, she found them trembling. She was seized by a desire to close her eyes, to rest and recover. Yet the sparks of life thrumming within her—Thimara, Eldesse, and Osirath, the three that remained after all the others had their vengeance against their killers—would not let her rest. There was something else they wanted.

  But what? Aisha didn’t understand, but she couldn’t focus on that yet.

  Briana shot a wide-eyed look over her shoulder, fear once more etched in the lines of her face. “Why? What could they want from me now?”

  Aisha exchanged a glance with Kodyn. By the look on his face, he’d been wrestling with the question, as she had. “I…don’t know,” she finally said. “When I found the Gatherers in the Keeper’s Crypts, one of the Syndicate’s thieves brought them a message. But I was too far away to hear the message, or what the Gatherers planned to do and why.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.” Kodyn’s voice had taken on that familiar puzzling tone. “Your father’s gone, so there’s no reason to kidnap you.”

  “So either they wanted to kill you, or…” Aisha’s eyes narrowed as her gaze fell on the leather-bound journal and the black stones scattered across the room’s single bed. She sucked in a breath as an idea crashed into her mind. “The Serenii artifacts!”

  Briana’s eyebrows shot up. “You think?” she asked.

  Aisha whirled on Hailen. “When Angrak’s men came to take over Suroth’s mansion, you said they went straight for the study, right?”

  Hailen’s expression had grown pensive as well. “Yes.”

  “So what if the real reason for this attack was those?” Aisha thrust a finger at the artifacts. “We suspected that Angrak is working with the Gatherers and the Ybrazhe. Either the Necroseti want Suroth’s artifacts and they’re getting the cultists to do their dirty work, or—”

  “Or the Gatherers found out that Angrak failed to deliver what they wanted and decided to take care of it themselves!” Kodyn finished for her.

  Four pairs of eyes turned toward the bed. Such simple, innocuous objects—strangely-shaped black stone etched with illegible runes—yet all knew the power they contained.

  “Do you think…” Briana began, but swallowed hard before continuing. “…the Gatherers have found the way to unlock the Serenii magic, too?”

  Hailen shook his head. “It shouldn’t be possible.” The confidence in the boy’s tone surprised Aisha. He held up a finger, which bore a healing cut. “The Serenii artifacts are only activated by blood, remember?”

  “No, that’s not entirely true.” Briana frowned, her brow knitting in thought. She stepped toward the bed, picked up her father’s journal, and flipped through the pages. “Here. Look at this.”

  Hailen took the journal from Briana and studied it for a moment. When he looked up, suspicion shone in those violet eyes of his. “How did he learn these words?”

  “I don’t know.” Briana turned her palms up. “But I’ve rarely seen him so excited.
He swore that this was the secret to the Serenii magic within the Vault of Ancients.”

  “What?” Kodyn nearly shouted. “You’re sure?”

  “It could be.” Hailen frowned down at the pages once more.

  “Anyone want to tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” Aisha asked. She felt as if she’d missed something important.

  Briana turned toward her with an apologetic smile. “So my father found these words—” She took the journal from Hailen and held it out to Aisha, revealing a page filled with symbols and markings that looked like utter gibberish. “—a few years ago, and he said that they were the most important words passed down through the ages. I didn’t understand what that meant and he didn’t clarify, but he did tell me that they were the secret to the Vault of Ancients.”

  “The secret that allows him to enter safely without setting off the traps set by the Serenii,” Kodyn put in. An excited gleam sparkled in his eyes and he snatched up the journal. “This is the key to getting to the Crown of the Pharus!”

  “And the Blade of Hallar,” Hailen put in.

  “Of course.” Kodyn nodded, as if Evren’s mission was an afterthought and not something that could have massive repercussions for the fate of Einan. Aisha remembered Evren’s words—“it’s going to help save the world from destruction by a being so powerful, it killed the Serenii”—and the shadow in the young man’s eyes as he spoke of the ancient weapon.

  Hailen turned to Briana. “But you said that my blood isn’t the only way to activate the Serenii artifacts?” He tapped these pages. “These words do as well?”

  “I-I think so.” Briana hesitated. “Once, when I was much younger, my father asked me to read the words aloud for him.” Her smile grew wistful, tinged with sorrow. “One of the few things he was incapable of doing for himself. That was the first time he let me help him with his work, for that matter. And when I started being interested in his work.”

  Aisha said nothing, simply placed a consoling hand on the girl’s shoulder as a tear slipped down Briana’s cheek.