Empire of the Peaks Books 1-3 Boxset: Empire of the Peaks

By Adam J Mangum

An empire sits on the edge of collapse. A system of magical slavery and oppression has led to unrest and vulnerability. Five individuals yearn to keep the empire whole, more for themselves than some grand vision.

 

Zornan and his wife Calla become involved in imperial intrigue after he's framed for murder. Zornan fights to protect his family, and Calla strives to protect her husband, sometimes from himself. An imperial investigator named Crisdan hunts down Zornan, attempting to uncover the truth and stay unstained from the corruption all around him. Mizcarnon is an imperial scout who finds that the biggest threat to the empire is from outside its borders. And Tha'Strukra is a magically-enhanced assassin trying to find her soul.

 

The Empire of the Peaks is a fantasy adventure series perfect for fans of Brandon Sanderson and Robert Jordan. 

 

This boxset contains the following:

Rebels & Assassins (a prequel previously only available to email subscribers)

Peak Crosser (book 1)

Wayward Flight (book 2)

Crumbling Empire (book 3)

 

You can finish the series with the final two books:

Light of Moons (book 4)

War of Three (book 5) 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam J Mangum
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781945359200

Book preview

Empire of the Peaks

Empire of the Peaks

Books 1-3

Adam J. Mangum

Rocket Crossing

Copyright © 2020 by Adam J. Mangum

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-945359-20-0

For Kathleen

Also by Adam J. Mangum

The Empire of the Peaks

Light of Moons

War of Three

---

The Sycorax Series

Caliban’s World

Seeds and Masters

Claribel and Caliban

Contents

Rebels & Assassins (Book 0.5)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Peak Crosser (Book 1)

1. Strange Encounter

2. Homecoming

3. Dark Things

4. A Diversion

5. A Dark Night

6. The Next Morning

7. Interrogation

8. The High Magistrate

9. Escape

10. A Grand Meeting

11. Consequences

12. In the Mountains

13. Landing

14. Skathall

15. Strange Home

16. An Old Friend

17. Two Merchants

18. A Monster

19. The Emperor’s Request

20. What One Must

21. Allies

22. Leaving Again

23. Through the Tunnels

24. Confined

25. Lawless

26. Clues

27. Something Hidden

28. A Familiar Face

29. Dagtarna

30. Prey

31. Evidence

32. Mind Games

33. Dreams and Reality

34. Troubled Flight

35. Compulsion

36. Unexpected

37. A Terrible Purpose

38. Transformation

39. Masters

40. Joyful News

41. Imperial Audience

Wayward Flight (Book 2)

1. Leaving Home

2. Stranded Duty

3. Destroyers

4. A Dark Purpose

5. Survivors

6. Brother and Sister

7. The Mazzdu

8. Cazdanth

9. The High Priest

10. Duty

11. Nightmares

12. Back to Fallindra

13. Zornan Destroyer

14. Mountain Road

15. A Trail of Vengeance

16. Fallen Mountain

17. A New Path

18. Kalsrah

19. Protection

20. Prisoner

21. Among the Lawless

22. Expectations

23. Catching an Enemy

24. Strange Customs

25. Hope

26. Despair

27. Orders and Visions

28. Oceans and Holes

29. Allies

30. Kandrinal

31. Creature Unleashed

Epilogue

Crumbling Empire (Book 3)

1. Guilt and Failure

2. The Rebels

3. New Visions

4. The Same Target

5. A Night in Kandrinal

6. A Losing Victory

7. A Fever

8. True Villains

9. A Voice from the Past

10. Healed

11. The Otherworld

12. Revelations

13. A Flailing Investigation

14. A Way to the Peaks

15. Friends and Plans

16. The High Counselor

17. Unexpected Hope

18. Midway

19. Two Baldra

20. Despair and Hope

21. Chains

22. Plans in Place

23. Finding Humanity

24. The Throne Room

25. No More Peace

26. Finding Calla

27. Rescue and Betrayal

28. A New Emperor

29. Escape

30. A Prayer

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Rebels & Assassins (Book 0.5)

Chapter One

Tha’Strukra stood over two bodies, her silent prey laying on the floor—one with multiple stab wounds, the other with a bloody knife in his hand and a deep cut across his throat. This had been an incredibly efficient kill. Baldra, the magically-enhanced assassins of the Empire of the Peaks, needed to be invisible, kill and leave no trail. And Tha’Strukra was about to do just that.

The first victim was a prominent merchant who’d annoyed the wrong people by funding the rebel Kuthraz. Tha’Strukra did not know why her masters hated the Kuthraz or what this man had really done to invoke their ire. It did not matter. Tha’Strukra had no choice in the matter; she did not choose her prey or even the manner of their death. She acted as her Shindar master willed. The second victim had been nothing but a convenience, a tool to ensure the explanation was anything but the truth. She’d found the two men together and had changed the plan from a suicide to a murder and then a suicide.

Despite how well she’d done, Tha’Strukra took no pleasure in it. She was the blade that ripped lives apart. Come morning, the merchant’s wife would find this scene. Had the servant been her husband’s secret lover? Rumors like that existed, at least that’s what Tha’Strukra had been told. Was the murderous servant simply jealous or executing an old grudge? It didn’t matter. Tha’Strukra tried not to imagine the woman’s grief, or that of their children. Their unheard cries would haunt her, but not now. She would deal with those nightmares later.

But she wasn’t really a blade, was she? Did the blade mourn its victims? No, the cold steel or the polished stone held no remorse, no pity. Tha’Strukra might not control her own will, but she still had the soul of a woman inside her, though it seemed to diminish day by day. Other Baldra seemed to enjoy killing. For Tha’Strukra, only one kill would bring her any amount of joy. And it certainly wasn’t this one.

A faint sound came to Tha’Strukra’s blessed ears, and she stilled her breath to hear even better. It was a whisper from several rooms over in the opulent mansion.

Dreet? a soft, feminine voice whispered. Dreet? Where are you?

Dreet. It took a moment for the name to register. Tha’Strukra recalled it was the name of the servant lying at her feet. Someone was looking for him. Another servant, perhaps? A friend? A lover? Moons above, the woman’s voice was urgent; she would keep looking.

Tha’Strukra closed her eyes to the faint light of the two-moon night and embraced her second sight. Most of the house faded, and she could see the green glow of brastilia, the magical stone used for decoration or for weapons, like the twin short swords she used. The two dead men had faint traces of the orange, which lit all human things in her second sight. The rest was darkness, until she saw a living orange shape creeping through the blackness, her head turning side to side.

Dreet? the woman’s pleading grew more desperate with each whisper. Oh, Dreet, please answer me. Oh Dreet. The woman moved toward the room.

Moons be damned, Tha’Strukra cursed silently. Of course, that servant had to have someone looking for him in the early hours. The grisly murder scene would not wait until morning.

Tha’Strukra pushed the window open, the humid air pushing against her skin. Closing her eyes again, she looked back. The orange form of the woman was only a few feet from the double doors leading to the study. Tha’Strukra’s needless pondering left her with little time. The perfection of this kill teetered on the edge of failure.

The assassin jumped through the window, twisting in the air and closing it behind her.

Tha’Strukra had planned on leaving the way she’d come in — through the servant’s stairs and out a utility door. She would have slipped between guards as they walked their patrols. It would have been noiseless and undetectable.

Instead, she crashed into a hedge beneath the window, landing roughly against the stone of the house. Had she not had the inhuman dexterity of a Baldra, she would have broken a leg or worse. But she landed like a cat, one hand against the wall. The crunching of the leaves and branches beneath her feet echoed in her blessed ears.

She closed her eyes and embraced the second sight.

What under the moons was that? a voice said in the distance.

Just a cat or one of the master’s blasted hounds, another voice answered.

The hounds are locked in the keep, the first voice replied. You’re thicker than one of those slobbering mutts.

Tha’Strukra could see their orange glows moving toward her from their post around the corner. Their voices held no trepidation; they thought they’d find nothing or a small animal, a story the next morning to tell their friends about getting spooked by a stray cat. But as they reached the corner of the building, Tha’Strukra knew she’d have to kill them. She was hidden in the hedge with her hood pulled over her ashen face. On some nights, they might have missed her amongst the dark green leaves and thick branches, but it was a bright, two-moon night, and her shape would likely give her away in the light. She crept noiselessly toward them, getting in position to kill them both before either could raise an alarm.

A high-pitched scream stopped Tha’Strukra in her tracks. The woman seeking Dreet had found his corpse. The voice screamed a second time, this one more mournful, the terror mixed with sharp grief.

The orange shapes around the corner stopped.

Come on, the first voice said, and both shapes turned and ran for the front entrance.

Tha’Strukra did not hesitate. She jumped from the hedges, clearing them easily. Hopefully any damage she’d done landing in them would be unnoticeable, but she knew better than that. An Investigator would be called, and they’d find her slip-up. Tha’Strukra’s master, Talalah Shindar, would not be pleased with the sloppiness. Tha’Strukra had taken all the care to make this look like a domestic murder, but any Investigator worth his weight in mrakaro droppings would suspect something else. Tha’Strukra cursed all three moons.

She reached the woods on the other side of the lawn, turned and looked back at the palatial house. The room she’d left the bodies in now glowed with several lamps, but the windows were shut. They had no reason to suspect an exit through the windows, so no one looked there. Tha’Strukra thanked the moons for the lack of imagination among the unblessed.

She sprinted through the woods and followed the small river toward the shore, moving quickly enough to put space between her and the chaotic scene behind, but deliberately enough to leave no trail. If the Investigators suspected an assassination, escape through these woods would be the next likely assumption. She could leave no trace. Baldra like Tha’Strukra did not exist and were to leave death as their only mark on the world.

For the next several hours, she traveled along the river and north along the shore. When she’d put nearly twenty miles between herself and the house, a day’s travel for anyone but a Baldra like herself, she stopped and reached her mind out to Talalah Shindar.

It is done, Tha’Strukra thought to her master.

Done well or just done? came Talalah’s terse reply.

Tha’Strukra bristled under her master’s rebuke. Had the woman been monitoring Tha’Strukra’s feelings? A Shindar controlled their Baldra with a compulsion stronger than the Infinite Mountains. But the Shindar could not see what a Baldra saw—she could only feel what the Baldra felt. It was little consolation, but at least Tha’Strukra could keep some things from her master.

There was a complication, Talalah Shindar, Tha’Strukra thought back to her master. She described her slipshod escape.

If there was disappointment, none leaked through their bond. And Talalah was not one to hold back her feelings. It is well, pet. They will not find your trail. You’ve done your part.

Where to now? Tha’Strukra could feel the compulsion of her last order from Talalah rooting in her place like an old oak tree. She’d been told by her Shindar to remain at this specified place afterward and to await her next commands. So Tha’Strukra could do nothing else. She hungered for the next command, impatient with her stationary state.

You are free to do as you wish, within the bounds I’ve set. Talalah Shindar had given her a litany of base commands, the wise action of any Shindar. When you magically controlled another’s will, you had to make sure to build a base that would keep the Baldra from skirting around your commands. Talalah had been explicit through the years, layering this very effectively. There were places Tha’Strukra could never go, words she could never utter, and people she could never interact with.

But with that simple phrase, Talalah had given Tha’Strukra as much freedom as a Baldra ever had. She would go to Creema, a day and a half’s journey from the coast. Talalah had forbidden Tha’Strukra from interacting with any of her human family except one: her father. Talalah Shindar had mercy enough to allow Tha’Strukra the opportunity to hunt her father. And so, she would.

Thank you, Talalah Shindar, Tha’Strukra thought back to her master, moving quickly along the grasslands adjacent to the beach. She’d make her way across the plains to Cliff Face, and then to Creema.

She was Baldra. She existed to kill, and no one deserved death beneath her hatnuthri short swords more than her father.

Chapter Two

Y ou cannot enter the master’s rooms without his permission.

The sapling-thin woman stood in front of a large, wooden door. She was tall with long gray hair twisting from her back to her chest in a complicated braid that reminded Crisdan of the fishing baskets his mother made when he was a child.

Crisdan Investigator stood opposite her, flanked by his two hulking Enforcers, men blessed with size, strength and a lust for violence, and unfortunately little intelligence and nearly no patience.

Crisdan stifled a sigh and buried his frustration. It had been annoying enough to find that the accused, Lascrill Peak Crosser, master of the Peak Crosser Academy, was not here at the Academy. The man hardly ever left the place, but apparently, he’d left yesterday to fly to Corbay on a training assignment. Corbay. Two days’ travel by mountain road, a little shorter across the prairie-cat-infested plains, and half a day by giant flyer. In a tense investigation like this, that might as well be on the other edge of the Infinite Mountains.

Lascrill was accused of treason against the Empire of the Peaks, one of the most serious charges that could be levied against a citizen. And now, this woman wanted to stand here and keep Crisdan and his men from doing what justice demanded.

What is your name? Crisdan asked.

Joriana, the woman said, her face remaining defiant. As a blessed Investigator, Crisdan could sense the woman’s emotions like scents on the wind. There was some fear, but less than he would have predicted. Defiance dominated her feelings, mixed with anger and annoyance. The fear was a minor part, like a dash of salt on a well-cooked fish.

How long have you served Lascrill Peak Crosser?

I’ve served Master Lascrill for eighteen years. She folded her arms. And he is a private man. Only I and the maid are allowed in his chambers.

Crisdan could feel she would not move. Her defiance was like an oncoming tidal wave, ready to break anything before it.

But Crisdan was the storm wall, and her will would break.

Was this woman complicit in Lascrill’s supposed treachery? A source had identified Lascrill as one of the leaders of the Kuthraz, a band of rebels who worked to destabilize the Empire by fomenting dissatisfaction among the High Trades. It came as no surprise that a Peak Crosser would be a leader—Peak Crossers were nothing but glorified curriers, relics of an age when the Empire had not had tunnels and swift-moving tunnel ferries criss-crossing the Infinite Mountains. They were the least of the High Trades, and Lascrill had trained nearly all living Peak Crossers in these very halls.

Crisdan felt no duplicity from this unblessed woman, no fear of discovery. He only sensed a woman who wanted to protect her master.

Another sense struck him: a lust for violence swirling from both Enforcers who accompanied him. These idiots thought knocking someone’s head against the wall was the only way to get anything done. Fools.

Do you know what I am? Crisdan asked Joriana.

You are an Investigator.

Crisdan smiled. She didn’t know who he was. I am Crisdan Investigator, Investigator of the High Trades.

Her face paled at his title. Then she knew. Investigators of the High Trades only pursued high-placed people like Master Lascrill. All the High Trades were above much of the law, their calling and station protecting them from some things. But no one, not even the moon-blessed Emperor himself, was above all the law.

Fear grew within her feelings. The fish was now properly flavored.

I have a warrant from the High Investigators themselves to question Lascrill Peak Crosser and to search the Academy, including his rooms. So please, Joriana, step aside and let us do our work. Wait downstairs with the other servants until you are called.

To her immense credit, the woman stood her ground for a few moments, posture as stiff as the peaks themselves, but her reason finally trumped her loyalty and she left, but not before fixing all three of them with a disapproving glare.

Crisdan turned to the man at his right hand. Get a message back to the High Investigators. Enforcers should be dispatched in Corbay. Lascrill should be arrested and held until I can reach the city.

The man nodded, his disappointment at not getting to physically remove the woman wafting from him. Enforcers weren’t much better than overanxious hunting dogs.

Crisdan led the other Enforcer into Lascrill’s chambers. For a Peak Crosser, the man lived well. His chambers weren’t spectacular, but they were nice. His sitting room overlooked the Plains of Bristinia, the capital visible in the hazy distance. A study joined the sitting area, and Crisdan saw a bedroom beyond that. The place was tidy and well-furnished; it seemed a shame they would have to tear it apart.

I’ll look in the obvious places, Crisdan said to Stargarn, the Enforcer who’d remained. He was blond and had shoulders that seemed wide even for his physically blessed High Trade. You look in the obscure. Rip everything apart. I can’t imagine the moons will bless us with a rebel who left evidence just sitting around.

Why all the effort to catch an old crotch hawk? the Enforcer asked, his Peak Crosser insult a clear indication how he felt about that particular High Trade. These Kuthraz haven’t done anything in forever. Moons, I didn’t even know they still existed. Why all the worry about a bunch of old disgruntled folks? Let them be bitter over an ale.

Crisdan sighed, wishing Stargarn would just stick to his own job. Do you know what the Kuthraz stand for?

The larger man shrugged. Folks say they don’t like the High Trades, think it’s a kind of slavery.

Seventy years ago, the Kuthraz tried to overthrow the government. They want the High Trades, as we know them, to be abolished. They want anyone to be able to apply to join the High Trades. They want freedom for High Tradesmen of all kinds, and they want the Emperor to be accountable to a body of representatives from throughout the Peaks. They would reform the Empire into something new. It’s not just old ‘crotch hawks’ sitting in taverns blowing smoke; it’s a sophisticated group of rebels who, when the time is right, will try and destabilize the Empire and assassinate the Emperor. Crisdan motioned to the bedroom. Now please go tear that room apart.

Stargarn did not move. His brow furrowed, and he looked to the floor. Do you ever wonder about the morality of the High Trades? The large man paused, as if chasing the right words in his mind. My mother sold me into it. She was poor, and it was the quickest way to feed my siblings. She told me I’d have a better life, never begging for a meal or scraping by. What kind of choice is that for a mother to make?

Stargarn looked up, and Crisdan fixed his eyes with the Enforcer’s. Crisdan’s story was not that different. He too had been sold from an impoverished family to make ends meet, and he’d barely spoken Imperial and had never even seen a permanent building. His Koofpashi village had been small, poor and dying, disease and a lack of fish killing them all.

But he didn’t view it exactly as Stargarn seemed to. Crisdan viewed it as a way out. Had the High Trade Academy selected young people based on merit or chance, he likely would have remained in Koofpash and died like his older brother and his mother had shortly after he’d entered the Academy. It might seem like the Empire preyed on desperation, but Crisdan was glad the opportunity had been his and not some rich child from Kandrinal.

I do wonder about the morality of everything we do, Crisdan said after a while. The world is messy, and every path crosses spots where the ground is unsure. I believe the Empire’s path has fewer than most, and it is certainly better than the chaos the Kuthraz would bring.

Stargarn nodded, though his feelings danced through doubt and worry. Crisdan had dismissed the Enforcer too quickly as an unthinking brute; he was more than just a giant boulder, a blunt weapon.

Moments later, he was in the bedroom tearing things apart.

Crisdan turned to the desk to examine the contents, ignoring the sounds of destruction coming from the other room. From the sound of it, Stargarn had already broken apart the Peak Crosser’s bed.

As expected, Crisdan found nothing out of the ordinary among Lascrill’s things. Had they not received the tip, nothing here indicated anything but a man who loved corresponding with his former students and who liked to read texts about mrakaros and cosows, the two most common giant flyers. Mrakaros were giant hawks, more common and considered more reliable. Cosows were giant bats, more maneuverable and temperamental than mrakaros.

Had Crisdan not interviewed their source himself, he might not have believed the accusation against the venerable old Peak Crosser. Lascrill was the master of the Peak Crosser Academy, a legend in his High Trade. He was even widely respected among the other High Trades, most of whom held Peak Crossers in disdain.

The man who had accused Lascrill claimed to have first-hand knowledge of the Kuthraz. The man was a raving drunk who’d bragged in a tavern that he moved among the elusive rebels. Once sober, he had denied it but retold his stories after some physical persuasion. He’d been adamant that Lascrill was not only a member of the Kuthraz but one of their leaders. He said another leader was a High Magistrate, though he didn’t have a name, and Crisdan wasn’t stupid enough to pursue that one any further without something to go on. The High Magistrates were a few steps below the Emperor and his council. Not even an Investigator of the High Trades could question a High Magistrate without approval from the High Magistrates and the Emperor’s council.

Even the High Magistrates answered to the law, and if Lascrill was proven a rebel, a call would come to find his High Magistrate accomplice.

The source had told the truth or was the best liar Crisdan had ever encountered. The man was unblessed, so Crisdan could not conceive any way under the moons the man would be able to fool a trained and blessed Investigator, let alone three of them.

I found something! Stargarn called from the bedroom.

Crisdan set aside a mundane letter between Lascrill and a woman Peak Crosser and entered the bedroom. The place looked like two prairie cats had fought and then decided to do it again. The bed was broken into dozens of pieces, much of the wood splintered beyond recognition.

Stargarn stood next to the wall holding a small metal box. I found it in the bed, below the headboard. The hulking man beamed with pride, like a child who’d found a long-lost toy.

Open it, Crisdan commanded.

Despite an obvious lock, Stargarn ripped the hinged door free from the box, revealing a stack of papers. The Enforcer frowned, obviously disappointed.

What were you hoping for? Crisdan asked.

Something more than paper, Stargarn replied. Maybe something forbidden.

He’s an accused rebel, not a thief, Crisdan chided, taking the papers from the box. Finish looking around.

As Stargarn returned to his destructive revelry, Crisdan sat at Lascrill’s desk to examine the hidden papers. At first, he wasn’t sure what he’d found. It was correspondence, but it seemed innocuous. The letters were addressed to no one and signed by no one. They seemed to talk of normal things. One was a travel log of a mountain journey between Kandrinal and Skathall. Another told of a market in Crisdan’s native Koofpash. A third recounted a favorite inn in the Ice Mountains.

Code. The letters were code. Crisdan held back a smile. This was what he’d hoped for after discovering Lascrill was gone: potential evidence. At the moment, the code made no sense, but scholars might be able to decipher it.

One of the last sheets was another seemingly straightforward tale, but different than the others in two ways: it mentioned a name and its handwriting seemed unique compared to the others.

You seem so sure he can be trusted, the letter read. If so, why is he not one of us? The task I would have for him, if it came to that, would be the most important I could ever ask of another. If it comes to that, I need you to confirm that Zornan Peak Crosser is that man.

Zornan Peak Crosser. Crisdan did not know the name. Another code, or was this letter more straightforward? Crisdan scanned the other correspondence and saw no reference to this Zornan. If it was code, it was not commonly used. Of course, the code might not be that obvious.

Stargarn approached from behind, holding two hataris in his hands. Hataris were brastilia staffs, the favorite weapon of Peak Crossers. Both were in their short, non-weapon form. I found these in the leg of a chair.

Crisdan took them and examined them. Most High Trade were only issued one brastilia weapon each, and very few had three, assuming Lascrill had taken his with him. Crisdan held one in each hand, fingering the inscriptions on each one. He didn’t recognize the maker of either, which meant these weapons were ancient.

Crisdan smiled. One only kept weapons like this, acquired illegally on the black market, because one wanted something that could not be traced to a person. Only criminals or rebels needed such things.

Finish your search, Crisdan said, trying to hold down his excitement. He’d been hoping to find Lascrill here and question him, but this was better. Now he had something specific and illegal, so the Peak Crosser could be held indefinitely, questioned until he broke. If he was, indeed, a Kuthraz leader, the rest of the rebels would not be far behind.

Chapter Three

Lascrill watched as his two students flew on their giant flyers, weaving circles around each other. He guided his own giant flyer, a hawk-like mrakaro named Ash, far enough away from the students that he wouldn’t be in the way but close enough to closely observe them. In this case, he was observing them demonstrate just how mediocre young Peak Crosser apprentices could be.

Nort, a thin sixteen-year-old with a narrow face, sat tall on his own mrakaro, a majestic creature with rich brown feathers the color of an oak tree. The bird was named Forest. The other student, Driffa, was a little older and had been in training for a year longer. She was short and thin, her black hair kept longer than most Peak Crossers and pulled in a tail behind her head. Her command of her giant flyer, a bat-like cosow named Ice, was much smoother, though it still lacked any subtlety. Cosow flight was more chaotic, and she handled those jerks in a more fluid motion than most students.

They played a game Lascrill called Take the Hat. He’d invented it many years before to practice and test flying skills, particularly maneuverability and close-proximity flying. Each student wore a ridiculously oversized hat on their head, strapped across their chin. Nort and Driffa wore theirs now, the four-foot long hats flapping absurdly in the swirling wind. The goal of the game was to touch the hat of your opponent before they touched yours without making contact with your opponent’s body or his giant flyer. Though the game was a good way to practice certain flying skills, Lascrill also enjoyed it because it made the students look ridiculous; a little humility was always a good lesson.

Nort guided his older mrakaro in a dive towards Driffa and her cosow. This was their fourth contest today, and the lad was as close to getting a kiss from Driffa as he was to touching the hat. She’d won the first three with ease, and now the younger flyer was trying to make up for that in one over-anxious game. Nort held the reigns too tightly, he squeezed his legs instead of using more subtle touches, and he sat upright, which created too much drag. Watching Nort fly was like watching a wounded bird try to fly in the rain with a weight tied to its foot. Lascrill wanted to look away, it was so ugly. But since he was their teacher, and had been the teacher of almost every Peak Crosser for three decades, he should probably watch so he could provide the young man with all the gruesome details later.

Nort’s dive was not steep enough, and Driffa didn’t even have to alter her course to avoid his attack.

Tight! Lascrill yelled, not sure if the boy could hear him against the wind. Get in tight!

Nort looked in Lascrill’s direction, but his quizzical look indicated he hadn’t heard or maybe hadn’t understood. Lascrill smiled. Time for a more hands-on lesson.

Let’s show these hatchlings how to do it, Lascrill thought at Ash. The mrakaro responded with a jolt of enthusiasm.

Lascrill guided Ash into a dive toward Nort and Forest. Nort’s back was to him now, as he was trying to level out and keep an eye on Driffa. The boy looked back too late, his eyes wide when he finally noticed Lascrill’s fast descent. He looked like he might piss his pants. Lascrill hoped the boy wasn’t that scared; mrakaros did not take well to getting pissed on, and she might dump the boy if he did that.

Lascrill and Ash dove right at Nort, Ash’s beak pointed at Nort’s chest. The boy let go of the reigns and raised his hands—a foolish move, especially if a bird bigger than a cow decided to ram you.

At the last moment, Lascrill nudged Ash into a tight spiral, the horizon twisting in Lascrill’s view. The spin changed their course, and Lascrill looked straight down at the bewildered student. Lascrill reached out and boxed the boy’s ear with his hand. Lascrill twisted out of the maneuver and leveled off, looking back at Nort. The boy needed to be careful; keeping his eyes that wide that long might make them stick.

Driffa moved in closer, laughing. Ice chortled with her. Lascrill smiled as he angled Ash in her direction.

It took her a moment, but she saw him coming and turned Ice away from them, moving toward the aviary below. But she’d reacted too late; Ash was closing too fast.

Lascrill reached and drew a long knife from his back. Mrakaros were faster and sleeker than cosows, and Ash was faster than most. As they came in behind the giant bat, Lascrill turned Ash into a perpendicular angle, his wing passing inches from the edge of Ice’s flapping appendage. Lascrill sat up straight, swung his knife, and lopped off the top of Driffa’s hat.

As he turned to gloat, a flash of light caught Lascrill’s eye. The Peak Crosser keeper was signaling them with a mirror. Lascrill leveled their flight and tucked the knife behind his back. The signal was clear: immediate landing needed. Dann, the keeper, was not prone to panic, so this frantic signal meant something.

Lascrill waved his left arm high in the air above his head twice, the in-air signal for an immediate landing. Both students acknowledged his instruction by facing their palms toward him. As soon as he received their affirmations, Lascrill turned Ash toward the aviary and descended.

The aviary was tucked into a mountain side facing the Plains of Bristrinia. It was an ancient structure that had once been the home to priests from a long-forgotten religion. For the past several centuries, it had been the haven of Peak Crossers, particularly initiates. It was a short day’s flight from the Peak Crosser Academy, the perfect distance to take the hatchlings (both human and giant flyer) on their first journey.

They landed on a flat butte jutting away from the main building. Dann, the Peak Crosser keeper, stood facing them, his face always inscrutable, as if he’d been carved from the same stone the aviary had been. His hair was almost pure white, and he wore a beard to match. His left eyebrow was gone, replaced by a bumpy scar that was the result of a run-in with a mad atacikic, the vile flyers who looked human, but were twisted monsters with wings like a butterfly and teeth and claws like a badger.

Someone is looking for you, Dann said, his voice as dry as his expression.

Who? Lascrill asked as he unhooked his legs from the saddle.

He wouldn’t say.

Lascrill’s stomach dropped, but he kept his expression nonchalant. If someone was looking for him, it likely had to do with his other life, the one he didn’t share with initiates or even friends like Dann. He’d known the keeper for more than forty years. What would Dann think if he found out his old friend was a traitor?

Lascrill turned to Driffa and Nort. Take the flyers to the pen. Polish the saddles and wash down your flyers and mine.

Are we done for the day? A hint of disappointment tinted Driffa’s question.

Yes, Lascrill said, though his plan had been to fly for another couple hours while they had daylight.

Yes, Master Lascrill. Driffa nodded, her eyes sad. She loved flying as much as Lascrill did.

Nort stretched his legs, sore from riding most of the day. He pulled his mrakaro and Ash toward the pen, Driffa following behind.

She’s going to make a fine Peak Crosser, Dann commented after the two initiates left.

Yes, she will, Lascrill replied. As will Nort.

Dann’s expression changed for a brief moment, his lips moving—his version of showing disbelief.

We all struggled to learn, Lascrill said. Maybe you’re too old to remember.

I remember, Dann replied. But I don’t remember ever flying so it looked like I was trying to mate my mrakaro instead of fly with him.

Lascrill smiled at the closest Dann would ever get to a joke.

Where’s the mystery guest? Lascrill said, changing the subject.

Outside the front door. I wouldn’t let him in without a name. Came alone on the road from Corbay.

Lascrill nodded and headed for the front door. He walked into the mountain through a long hallway. He stretched much like Nort, his muscles and joints stiffer than Dann’s demeanor. He was getting too old to ride. Dann had been retired from being a Peak Crosser for ten years, and the keeper was ten years younger than him. Lascrill had trained Dann, and now he was retired. That did as good of a job of reminding Lascrill of his age as his aching joints did.

The hallway opened into an entryway. The aviary was plain, which fit Lascrill. He despised the greed and showiness that infected the Empire of the Peaks—one of the many reasons it needed to be brought down.

Lascrill opened the front door, revealing a man with his back toward him. The man was almost totally bald, a small ring of white hair rounding the back of his head. He dressed in commoner attire but carried himself more like nobility.

Greeting, stranger, Lascrill said.

The man jumped and turned. He was not a stranger at all: it was Lascrill’s old friend Hykvan, an Investigator.

When Lascrill had been twelve years old, he’d been sold by his father into the High Trades. He started as an initiate at the High Trade Initiatory school where all potential High Tradesmen were sent before going into one of the specific academies. Hykvan had been one of the first people Lascrill had met after arriving from Rinderel. Hykvan was three years older than Lascrill, refined, smart and friendly. They’d become instant friends, both hailing from the same region of the Empire.

Now, Hykvan stood there, not wearing his High Investigator robe, obviously disguised except to anyone who knew him.

Welcome greeting, Hykvan replied.

Hykvan looked old, all of his seventy-one years and maybe then some. His face was wrinkled, not the unshaven baby face Lascrill had known in their youth. The High Investigator wore a full beard with dark hair mixed with white. His cheeks sagged, and the skin around his neck looked like a mrakaro had tugged it out and left it hanging loose.

Lascrill looked back into the entryway to make sure no one had followed him. After he saw no one, he closed the door behind him. What are you doing here? And why did you come like this?

Hykan looked around, his eyes wary. We should talk someplace else, not on a doorstep. Come.

Lascrill held his curiosity in check and followed his old friend down the path and into Corbay proper. The walk took twenty minutes, and since Hykvan seemed content with silence, Lascrill said nothing. But a clandestine meeting like this, with a High Investigator in commoner clothes, meant someone was in trouble. Since Lascrill lived his life on the edge of the kind of trouble that might necessitate this, the old Peak Crosser guessed his second life was the cause.

Hykvan began talking once they reached the streets of Corbay and entered its central market. He looked about casually, but Lascrill saw the tension in his jaw, the concern in his eyes.

I had to come, in this fashion, Hykvan said, because no one can know I came to you.

How did you find me?

I’m an Investigator, Lascrill, and a damn good one. I have my ways. The phrase had been meant to lighten the mood, but it didn’t.

What is going on? Lascrill hoped his fears didn’t match what his old friend was about to say.

You’ve been accused of treason, Hykvan said, his voice a whisper.

Lascrill closed his eyes and tried to keep himself from shaking. He’d been a rebel nearly as long as he’d been a Peak Crosser. He’d avoided detection for almost a lifetime, but now they knew.

Is there any validity to it? Hykvan asked.

Of course not, Lascrill lied, wishing he could trust his friend with the truth.

But Hykvan was an Investigator, blessed to sense the feelings of others. Could his old friend know Lascrill was lying? Lascrill had been trained to deflect an Investigator’s probing, but it wasn’t foolproof, and Hykvan was known as one of the best.

An Investigator is at the Peak Crosser Academy as we speak, Hykvan continued. They received a right of search from the High Magistrates to search your things. Your room will be turned upside down.

A sick pit opened in Lascrill’s stomach. He’d be found out, and in that moment of depressing discovery, he knew his feelings were likely an open page to the experienced Investigator.

Searching his room. He kept his two lives separate, the rebel and the Peak Crosser, striving to never cross them. But he’d recently traveled from Bristrinia to Cliff Face with some correspondence on his person. He’d left it in his room, hidden in a compartment behind his bed, but there just the same. If the Investigator at the Academy found those papers. . .

Lascrill cursed silently to every moon and god, and took a deep breath to bring back some composure.

You are accused of being part of the Kuthraz, the old Investigator continued. And if that is found true, you will be interrogated, tortured, and then executed.

Kuthraz. Yes, indeed he was, one of its leaders, dedicated to bringing down the Empire, dedicated to creating equality and ending the servitude of the High Trades.

Lascrill looked around, fear striking him that this entire conversation might be a set-up. He had denied any wrong-doing verbally, but he was sure his emotions had betrayed him, and Hykvan’s testimony was truer than the purest moonlight from Circlarl. Hykvan was one of Lascrill’s oldest friends, but he was also a High Investigator and loyal to the Empire.

Lascrill’s trained paranoia saw nothing in the market crowd as Hykvan led them in a circle.

Why warn me? Lascrill asked.

Because you’re my friend, Hykvan responded. And because you’re a good man, even when you make stupid decisions.

Lascrill opened his mouth but closed it before he said anything else. Had his old friend suspected him before? But Lascrill could not admit to anything, even if his friend now suspected the truth, or had suspected it for some time.

Thank you, he finally managed to say.

"When they don’t find you at the Peak Crosser Academy, they will trace you here. You must not be here when they come.

There’s more, Hykvan continued. The source that tipped them off was supposedly Kuthraz, and he bragged about you specifically. He also said that one of the High Magistrates is involved and has a bastard daughter. The man was quite talkative for a rebel, but he didn’t know the identity of the High Magistrate.

Moons above. Who had been that sloppy? Few knew about all three leaders, and whoever this source was had revealed a great deal about two of them.

Of course, if you are innocent and they find nothing at the Academy to connect you. . . Hykvan trailed off, but his own suspicions hung on his words. It is time for me to get back, his friend said, his eyes drifting to the east where the capital might have been visible in the distance if not for Corbay’s buildings. His words gave way to a deep cough.

Are you not well? Lascrill asked, stopping short.

His friend paused, not looking back. The Healers can do little for me. Facing death, as we all must, has made me understand what’s most important. Friends. The Empire. My legacy. Sad parting, Lascrill.

Hykvan faded into the bustling crowd and Lascrill turned toward the keep. He needed to make some preparations, but he’d be leaving for Bristrinia within the hour; he had to warn the others before his own mistakes exposed more than himself.

Chapter Four

Tha’Strukra made her way through the streets of Creema, its active nightlife pulsing around her. Creema sat beyond the edge of the Bristrinian plains, the gateway to the flatlands and the capital beyond. The city existed as a place between places; not many were from there, but crowds passed through, either through a fairly tame mountain pass and the hard road to Bristrinia or through a tunnel to Cliff Face and then a slightly easier road to the capital. So, folks from across the Empire of the Peaks mixed through here—every sort of folk and every sort of story.

Tha’Strukra cared little for their stories or purposes. Her purpose was likely darker than most but a few.

It had been a warm day, but the night air was cooler, and the good weather seemed to have brought out every person in the city. The crowd was thick, a moving mass of humanity searching to satiate desires with food, drink, or companionship. With her hood pulled up over her bald head, Tha’Strukra weaved among the drunks and want-to-be drunks with inhuman deftness. Despite the throng, not even her cloak brushed a passerby. She did not search for liquor, did not plan to gamble, and was not looking for a warm bed to share. She wanted to slip a blade through her father’s heart.

She’d found him earlier that day staying at a disgusting little brothel on the edge of the valley near the mountain road to Bristrinia. She waited for him to emerge as she’d arrived in the city just before night fell. Minutes before, he’d come out, and now she had him in her sights. Now he would die.

Even in the dim light, she could see the back of her father’s head, his hair longer than when she was a child. He also walked with a limp and carried significantly more weight than when he’d been a farmer. Trafficking in young prostitutes did not demand an active life, and her father’s body had clearly succumbed to all his terrible ways. He drank too much to stay fit, he whored too much to stay free of disease, and he gambled too much to not owe whatever increase he gained to some disreputable sort. The only difference between the man who walked twenty paces in front of her and the man who’d been her father a decade before was that now he wore his depravity like a badge of honor instead of hiding it underneath a cloak of pretended decency.

Ten paces. She was close now. She could smell him, and it disgusted her. He’d smelled the same when she was a child each time he returned from one of his trips to town. The scent he’d worn each time he threw Mother to the ground. The scent had been there when Tha’Strukra had defended Mother and gotten a blow to the face. Even though the memory of this smell came from before her blessing day, her enhanced senses only served to strengthen its potency.

Five paces. She extended her hands, the two blocks of brastilia slipping from pockets in her sleeves. Tha’Strukra reformed the blessed stone into hatnuthri, the weapon of choice for all Baldra, two short swords as sharp as any and as firm as the Infinite Mountains’ most solid peak. She’d imagined this moment almost every day of her life, imagined killing this monster. She’d let him see her face, let him see that his long-lost daughter had found him. And as she sunk her hatnuthri into his chest, she’d smile as he’d often done while beating his wife and children. He’d die with her smile on his soul.

Tha’Strukra reached for his shoulder, his stench almost overwhelming her. She would spin him around, throw him to the ground, and kill him.

Stop. Talalah Shindar’s command struck Tha’Strukra like a blow to the chest. Her hand, just inches from her father’s shoulder, just moments from ending his life, fell to her side.

Tha’Strukra tried to resist, tried to bring her hand back up, tried to close the growing distance between herself and her father, but a Baldra was as her Shindar willed, and Tha’Strukra’s desire meant nothing within the tempest of her master’s command.

Why do you still my hand? Tha’Strukra demanded, not even trying to hide her anger.

Laughing didn’t ring through mindspeak like it did in real life, but Talalah’s amusement came through clearly. She was enjoying playing with Tha’Strukra, a prairie cat tripping a wounded deer time and again.

I need your in Bristrinia. Leave immediately. I’ll give more details when you reach the city.

Tha’Strukra’s began moving again, Talalah Shindar’s command like a heavy weight laid atop her own will. She could see her father slipping away, mixing into the crowd. Finding him again would take time, a luxury not often afforded to Baldra.

I will kill him someday, Tha’Strukra stated.

I have no doubt, but not tonight. Again, the voice rang with teasing.

Did Talalah think this was a game? No, this was a noble killing, maybe the only blood to stain her hands the moons wouldn’t hold against her when she crossed to the next life. She would receive praise for this killing, this act of righteous vengeance.

For the first time in many years, Tha’Strukra let thoughts of rebellion against her Shindar’s will bubble from the part of her mind she kept secret. She wanted to rail against Talalah for making sport of this, for ruining this most perfect of kills.

But she could do no such thing; her Shindar’s commands were binding. She was just grateful that the command to not kill her father was temporary. As soon as she finished this next job, she’d hunt the man down again.

But would Talalah ever let Tha’Strukra succeed? She seethed with anger, but shoved the emotion aside. Talalah Shindar commanded Tha’Strukra absolutely, but some thoughts could remain her own, even if that’s all that did.

As you command, Shindar. Tha’Strukra turned and wove through the crowd back toward the tunnel that would take her to her next kill.

Chapter Five

Lascrill slipped from the Feathered Lizard, an inn in the heart of Bristrinia’s social district. The Lizard was not the most reputable place, but it wasn’t the seediest either. He kept a permanent room there, not as Lascrill Peak Crosser but under the name Bonn. He’d had the room for six years now, a place for him to come when he needed to not be seen as the Master of the Peak Crosser Academy.

He wore one of his many disguises, this time dressed as a struggling merchant. The clothes were fine, but old and worn, a purple satin shirt and green wool trousers. A foppish hat rose from his head like the plume of some jungle bird, matching purple mixed with green, yellow and pink. A wig of fake brown hair took twenty years away, at least from a distance when his leathery, Peak Crosser skin was not closely seen. A fake goatee completed the look. He’d used this disguise once years ago and ran into three former students at a tavern in Creema; in the brief encounter, they hadn’t even given him a second look.

Still, he checked his surroundings for searching eyes and continued his diligence as he walked, but no one seemed to pay him any mind. The only person he noted was a young man, dark skin, plain clothes and a serious demeanor. He watched the Lizard like he was thinking of robbing the place, or maybe he was looking for comers and goers. Lascrill would remember that face.

But the young man did not follow, and as Lascrill wove the streets in a nonsensical pattern, neither did anyone else. Maybe he hadn’t been paranoid enough the past few years, but he was certainly paranoid now.

When can we leave? Ash’s question came to his mind, the mrakaro’s anxiety sharp. I just saw some prairie cats wandering around. Do they hunt mrakaros?

Lascrill smiled. As large as prairie cats were, he imagined the predators were too smart to take on a full-grown mrakaro. I think you can handle a prairie cat or two.

Ash’s pride rankled through the bond. I didn’t say I couldn’t. But they’re thin and I’ve heard their meat is miserably bad.

Lascrill had landed the night before in hills outside the capital, one of the only places to hide a mrakaro on the otherwise flat plains. His walk and entrance into the city had been uneventful; the Empire probably did not suspect a wanted Peak Crosser to walk into its very heart.

You won’t need to be there long, Lascrill assured the mrakaro. One meeting, maybe two, and then we’ll leave. I’ll slip out tonight.

Ash sent his agreement and focused his attention elsewhere, his presence now a pulse in the back of Lascrill’s mind.

As he wove through the streets, head pivoting like a crazed bat, he wondered if this was all worth it. He’d taught dozens of Peak Crossers, probably more than one hundred. Almost everyone flying in the Empire had been tutored by him. It was a good life, a worthwhile life, not just a cover for being a rebel. He loved his Peak Crossers; they were almost like his children, the closest he would get to having children, and they would not understand. When he was exposed, his former students would feel betrayed, and he couldn’t blame them.

But this was the bargain he’d made decades ago in a meeting with an old Peak Crosser at a keep in Junnidra. The vaunted Empire of the Peaks used slaves to prop itself up. Sure, they called the slaves High Tradesmen, gave them important jobs, gave them power, but that did not change the fact that they stole children from their desperate parents, forbidding them to have families or move freely through the Empire. The forced servitude was for life; once sold into the High Trades, one could not leave without it being a crime. Some High Trades, including Baldra, were even darker. The Empire had assassins everyone pretended didn’t exist, children who’d been cursed and tied to the will of another. All who resisted the Empire found themselves dead at a Baldra’s hands.

As anger surged, Lascrill convinced himself again for the thousandth time that it was worth it. The Empire was sick, twisted and cruel. The Kuthraz would tear that down and replace it with something whole, just and fair.

He looked around again, checking for followers one more time before moving toward his actual destination: a silversmith in the merchant district. He’d seen the place many times, but he’d never been inside. The place was a last resort for him to meet with the other Kuthraz leaders in a time of emergency. He would go there, ask the right questions, and hopefully meet with his old friend.

Meeting in person was not something they often did. More common was a close meeting, as they called it. They’d have a district to meet in, then they’d mindspeak from a short distance. But this was too important for a close meeting. Both of them needed to see each other, ensure there was no coercion or compulsion involved.

The merchant district buzzed with a steady stream of people, even at this early hour. Most were dressed like he, merchants looking to buy or sell from the district’s many shops. Many were not native to the capital, looking for goods to sell in the far corners of the Empire and possibly even beyond. Others had brought goods from elsewhere, looking for the high profits available among the wealthy Bristrinians. Others included servants on errands and buyers: wealthy commoners, aristocrats, and High Trade. The voices of commerce filled the air, and Lascrill paid them little attention. He’d never had any interest in things, never had any interest in commerce. Profiting off others had always seemed dirty to him, the money from all this a cancer growing on society, sucking resources from those who needed it most. While the district buzzed, the residents in the poorer parts of the capital struggled to find food, work and shelter. Here, they angered themselves over the rising price of cinnamon from Kandrinal.

He continued through the crowd and saw his destination: a storefront so small it could be easily missed. A small sign indicated the low trade of silversmith, a fork painted on wood in shimmering silver, but no name. There were dozens of low trade shops like this, most indistinguishable from another. The proprietors differentiated through reputation.

Lascrill crossed the street but stopped suddenly, tension rising when he heard his name.

He forced his head not to turn toward the familiar sound from an unfamiliar voice mixing through the crowd. He slowed, hoping he’d not been recognized, hoping he wouldn’t have to call Ash into the city in order make a hasty escape.

No, that’s what I heard, one voice said. Lascrill Peak Crosser. He’s accused of something ghastly. Murder maybe. An Investigator of the High Trades and two dozen Enforcers stormed the Peak Crosser Academy.

Nonsensical rubbish, a second voice said, her tone casual and friendly, but still disbelieving. That old bird has been training Peak Crossers since before you left your mother’s knee. Murder? Silly rumors. You know better than to believe nonsense.

Say what you will, but the man I heard this from. . .

Had one too many drinks. She laughed, and then the voices moved away. Lascrill did not catch the man’s response.

Lascrill moved quicker now, breathing again. If rumors like this swirled among folks like these, then he needed to be gone soon. Even with disguises, too many folks knew his face, including every Peak Crosser in the Empire, and many of the other High Trades as well. Moons, this had all soured faster than a diseased mrakaro claw.

He stepped inside the silversmith, the front room no bigger than his closet back in the Academy. He felt a pang at thinking of the place. He’d loved his rooms, a view unrivaled in the Empire. He’d never step in that place again.

A woman sat behind a work bench, not looking up from a small piece of jewelry laid out before her in pieces. She seemed too young for a master silversmith. She wore thick spectacles that were too heavy for her slight face, and plain, thick work clothes. Her thick black hair was pulled up into a tight bun on the top of her head.

The next few moments were critical. He would order a candle holder in the Boothdrinkan style. She would reply that she would need four weeks for such work, and he’d ask her to do it in two. Then she would send a runner and summon Stethdel to an emergency meeting.

He’s already in the back, she said, her eyes on her craft, her hands moving ever so slowly. He’s been here for three hours. Not really set up to host, you see. The walls are thin. Don’t talk.

Lascrill eyed the young woman, trying to determine if this was some kind of trick. But she seemed completely disinterested in him and in whomever awaited in the back. When she continued her work and never looked up, he moved slowly toward a small doorway covered by a thick cloth. The room smelled of silver, burnt wood and dust. The only sound came from outside, the muffled din of the moving crowds. He pulled back the curtain with one hand, and reached underneath his frilly shirt with the other, his hand resting on his holstered hatari staff. He wasn’t sure what a man nearing his eighth decade could do against an ambush, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

He eased the curtain closed and relaxed somewhat when he saw the small back room’s lone occupant: High Magistrate Stethdel.

His old friend stood three or four inches taller than Lascrill and had the shoulders of an Enforcer despite no physical blessings beyond what the moons had granted him at birth. His dark hair was worn long, over his ears and down his neck. He was a decade younger than Lascrill, and looked another decade more than that, his smooth brown skin a stark contrast to Lascrill’s worn appearance. Stethdel was a man who spent his days in rooms debating the law and the guilt of the accused; he rarely saw the sun and likely never the back of a mrakaro.

Stethdel stood, reacting to Lascrill’s appearance with a small smile. That’s a ridiculous disguise, the High Magistrate spoke into his mind.

Better than your lack of one.

Stethdel wore a plain, black suit, something an aristocrat might wear, but his face and hair were the same, as was his impossibly straight posture and commanding manner. I don’t need one. Magistrates are never without their robes. Even the other High Magistrates wouldn’t recognize me in this common attire.

Lascrill decided not to point out that Stethdel was taller than most, looked like the hero from a folk tale, and drew the eyes of almost every woman he passed. What are you doing here before I even sent word? How did you know I’d be