The talon in his hand trembled with excitement as Risens readied himself for the first strike. Their ambush had failed, though he was by no means in the clear yet. His actions would likely spoil the secrecy of the hidden passage through the maze, but he had no intentions of using the windStep here again any time soon. Haste would be required; the countdown for the blades continued to decrease. The images—the familiar symbols—flickered in the lower corners of his vision. The right and left were off, but only by a matter of minutes. Unless something went tragically wrong, he had no intention of needing them for the full duration of their ability.

  The weapons quivered in anticipation.

  He would allow none here to survive.

  Upon this path, the ward of silence no longer prevailed. A simple concern wracked his mind: only those in the King’s employ knew the carefully guarded secret of the passage. Without clarity of who arranged the trap, his trust would need to be restored.

  The repercussions and interrogations would wait.

  He had work to do.

  The magus needed to die.

  Lurching forward, Risens thrust the talon in his left arm, striking with practiced precision. The attack was purposeful and lethal, guaranteeing a silent and quick death.

  He punched the dagger into the magus’ back, slipping through his ribs and piercing his heart. Though he’d used the method countless times, he was shocked to find the blade redirecting the angle of his approach ever so slightly, as if correcting a slight imperfection in his form that had developed over the years.

  With a quiet gurgle, the spellcaster’s eyes shot open. His mouth, now dribbling crimson, stopped its continual incantation. His head tilted lifelessly back against the brittle wall of vines.

  He was a thin man, yet the weight of propping his body up with naught but the blade was considerable. Pulling the dagger free, he leaped back, retreating to cover and waiting for the response from the magus’ companion.

  The symbol in the lower left corner of his vision flashed, increasing one digit on the far side. That was curious, but Risens hadn’t the time to consider the implications.

  Alerted by the magus’ nearly silent death gasp, the assassin abandoned his careful watch of the pathway beyond, turning to the dying magus. If they were skilled—Risens anticipated they would have trained with the spellcaster—they would have known the slight variations, the pressure changes in the air as the continual polishing of the spell ceased abruptly.

  Risens watched the man as he moved stealthily to his companion. His steps were rapid, falling on the balls of his feet before rolling to the heels. Moving sideways, he crossed his legs over each other to avoid the errant, noisy rubbing of the fabric of his clothing. The actions were intentional, born of practice and done without conscious thought.

  Perhaps he was up for a challenge after all.

  “Andrus, what is it?” His whispered voice was barely audible as he spoke to the mage. It was distorted, confusing his ears as if it were nothing more than the gentle moaning of the wind. The quality of the mageCraft cloth mask he wore over the lower half of his face was impressive—and pricey. To any untrained ears more than a few meters away, the sound likely would have contained no human quality.

  Unfortunately for them, Risens was far from untrained, and the assassin was far too close. Jealousy that seethed from the other talon delved to anxious mirth as he punched the blade through the wall of leaves. He felt the tangent of his strike shift lower than anticipated as his hand scraped against the wooden lattice hiding the pathway. Just before connecting with the man’s chest, the blade responded, angling its point upward as it passed through the thin armor, plunging through his would-be assailant’s chest. The right-hand countdown ticked up a digit, though it was still shorter than the other.

  Wrenching the talon back, the man crumpled beside his magus companion on the ground with the slight rustling of leaves. The blades in his hands, having tasted blood, were giddy with excitement and anticipation. They craved the hunt. They demanded more prey. He was astonished by the emotions that oozed from the steel. That they were limited in duration, as was the Shadows Shroud, was a concern, yet having sampled blood in battle, a measure of the timer had been seemingly restored.

  Risens’ perceptions had been indelibly altered in the last several days. Forbidden Brands marked his skin. The permanent mask on his face now represented his true form. That the weapons bestowed on him, to some degree, had some sentient qualities should not have come as a surprise, yet it was the insatiable bloodlust that shocked him the most. The voice that demanded his obedience, though ominous, had yet to prove itself malevolent. He quieted the seed of doubt forming in his mind. Would its true intentions, its self-serving, ruthless barbarity, one day be revealed as Lathrenon’s had?

  The thought only served to increase the anger residing in him.

  Staying low but moving swiftly through the passage, he reached one of several hidden doors along its clandestine corridor. Careful to dampen any noises that the lever might make, he pushed his way out into the hedges again, closing the exit behind him. His mounting curiosity about who had been sent to kill him was piqued, yet he stifled the urge for answers. They were now the ones at a disadvantage, as he knew exactly where they were they were hiding, lurking in wait.

  The secret entrance had positioned him at the rear of the second pair on this side. With their attention focused on what they believed to be the only entrance to the maze, his hope was to silence them before an alarm could be raised. What others remained were a mystery he would confront soon enough, though whether he surprised them or they were alerted to his presence was yet to be determined.

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  Pausing at the corner of the maze, he felt the frenzy of the talons increase. They screamed in his mind. They yearned for blood. Death. Chaos.

  It was curious that they seemed to sense the closeness of their prey and fed off the impending doom. A rapid glance confirmed that the pair of assassins remained where he’d last seen them, though their focus seemed to have intensified, shifting toward where the magus had died. That they had noted the change was further confirmation that this was not a trap staged by amateurs.

  Risens darted around the corner, noiselessly streaming over the tiles. It took only a few paces for him to reach the closest target. Much like the magus, the man’s life faded from his eyes in a flash with a knife buried through his heart. The talon hummed with elation, increasing the count once again.

  At his final hiss of life, the magus’ companion wheeled around. Anticipating this, Risens’ arm was already in motion, the talon flying from his hands with murderous glee. Within a single rotation of the blade, he realized the error in his throw. Ducking as he spun, the assassin dipped below the planned trajectory of the approaching weapon. Perhaps the razor’s edge would catch him as it sailed overhead, yet it would yield nowhere near the devastating intent. He watched the errant flight as his hand let the second blade loose.

  A single rotation later, he paused. As if viewing the scene in slow motion, he watched as the blade’s path dropped a few hands’ widths. A breath later, the blade buried into the man’s skull. Again, another digit was added to the ever-ticking clock that measured the Ravens Talons' presence.

  Risens froze. As if pushed by an unseen and powerful gust of wind, the knife had altered its course on its own. He judged his distance accurately as he had been trained, yet he had been unable to account for the erratic movements of his well-trained enemy. Somehow, the blade had veered. The strength of the talons’ deadly intent became clear.

  For one who lived and died by the blade, where a small mistake—unintentional or not—could cost his life, such a power was remarkable. If the weapons could effectively track their prey, how far could the skill be pushed? The prospect of the sheer unimaginable power contained within the Roost was daunting.

  Risens’ heart thundered at the sudden, fortuitous development, but his blood ran cold as the body of his latest victim crumpled to the ground.

  Even with all his training, all the mastery of his skills—a perfect throw, a clean kill—the variables were never entirely in his favor or under his control. He cursed as the blade, slipping from the dead man’s chest, clanged off the stone pavers of the maze’s path.

  The ringing of the steel on stone sounded like a gong now that the magus was dead and his ward interrupted. The others, fervently awaiting his arrival, not knowing it had already come, would no doubt hear such a distinct sound. They were professional enough to understand, at least in part, a measure of the skills their quarry possessed—enough to connect the sound of steel on stone. Furthermore, hearing anything at all would clue them in to the death of their companion. A magus of his caliber wouldn’t just lower the spell without cause. And a trained assassin, such as Risens or his enemies, didn’t mistakenly drop their blade during the hunt.

  They understood that their element of surprise had been wasted. Their attack would now come en masse.

  Risens retrieved the next dagger from his belt—one of those that did not crave blood—as he dragged the body beside him toward the corner of the hedge. The thumping of footsteps heralded the rapid approach of the remainder of the assassins lurking within the bends of the maze. The timer that marked the length of the talons he’d thrown faded from his vision. He had no time to ponder the sudden change.

  Without waiting to judge the disposition of their opponent, the first black clad soldier dove in a roll across the opening to the pathway. As soon as his feet gained purchase on the ground, he lurched awkwardly to the side. His intent became clear as he tossed a small glass vial, marked clearly with a red cap, into the pathway. Behind him, the second and third assassins lobbed similar glass containers down the aisle, though each followed different coordinated high arcs through the air. The one marked with a blue cap lower, the green above, while the red cut down the middle.

  Risens cursed, dropping to his knees, ducking his head behind the fleshy shield of the nearest fallen enemy as the first glass canister shattered on the stone. MageVials, he knew from painful experience, were not something to be trifled with. They varied wildly in effect from deadly to innate, yet each carried with it a deliberate purpose. The sudden retreating of the air around him made this one’s purpose unmistakable. He clamped his mouth shut as his breath was robbed from his lungs. As best he could, Risens buried his ears between his shoulder and his body as the spark lit the compressed gases.

  Thankfully, from his position, partially around the corner of the hedges, the body of the assassin took the brunt of the assault. The wave of pressure hammered into him, tossing them both backward into the solid hedges to their rear. Even the natural plants, free from the steel structures within, did little to diminish the dizzying force of the impact. His ears, even partially protected as they were by his drawn cowl, still rang with a high-pitched shriek as the deafening roar of its detonation rattled his mind. The concussive blast also produced little light, while creating a wildly disorienting effect, making it the perfect weapon for the close-quarters assault.

  Though his head swam from the noise and the dramatic change in pressure, he heard the clear, high-pitched cracking of the second glass vial on the stone. If the initial detonation had meant to stun him, the second would aim to wound him, to slow any action or reaction on his part. He cursed again at the small clot of liquid metal hovering just off the ground.

  Desperation set in as he struggled to force the lifeless, limp body off his legs. He resorted to ducking again behind the cover of the dead man as the undulating blob of silver crystallized. At the end of the aisle, the assassins had returned to the safety of the bushes.

  This time, the explosion was soft, more like the muffled cracking of too-thin ice underfoot. Most of his body was covered, yet several jagged barbs still ripped through his skin. His head ricocheted back as one skipped off the metal of his mask.

  That the assassins had practiced was apparent in the precision of their strike. The separate bottles were tossed with impressive accuracy and timing. Had he not been on the receiving end of their onslaught, he would have appreciated it far more. Now, his head like sloshing liquid, his right arm bleeding from scores of wounds, he was just angry.

  As planned, one of the jagged pieces of steel slashed through the last mageVial, shattering the glass and releasing its vile contents. A thin, vomit-hued, mist-like cloud blossomed before raining down over the path. The sour taste was one he knew well. Cimmerian Calcify—a poison he’d used more times than he could count. The effects were wide-ranging, from producing mild disorientation to paralysis, and in the worst cases, death.

  Brewed from the Mercurial Sprig, a relatively rare plant, growing only in the mineral-rich, high altitudes of the Cimmerian range. Generally, the more potent the odor, the purer and thus more effective the poison was. This one was exceptionally foul—a testament to its strength and cost.

  Panic threatened to take control as the fear of the toxin rankled his mind. Charging through the opposite edge of the cloud, the other four assassins abandoned the explosive charges for their blades, racing into the falling fog.

  Risens cursed out loud.

  He was going to die.