Pushing away the body that had shielded him from the blast, Risens whipped one of the kingdom-issued blades into the group. Unbalanced and frantic, it was an awkward sidearm throw that slashed through the meaty part of one man’s upper thigh. He knew the wound wouldn’t be lethal, but he was satisfied to see him stumble and fall, tripping up his closest companion. They were smart enough not to bunch together, yet in the cramped quarters of the maze, the close proximity was unavoidable.

  Crossing over to grab the other steel blade, Risens struggled to his feet, his breath held against the toxin cloud that settled over the whole of the area. He wrestled with the limited options at hand. Mere seconds were remaining for him to launch another dagger before he would be forced to inhale. Doing so, however, would leave him without a blade to fend off whatever charge would follow. Throwing caution to the wind, he let the remaining steel blade fly. It bit into the left shoulder of one of the charging pair.

  He cursed his stupidity that had seen him abandon one of the talons to take down the second assassin of the group. Had he been more patient, he did not doubt that two of his attackers would now lie dead as the maniacal blades would have found the blood they so desired.

  That the assassins raced through the mist of poison undeterred was telling, though he needed no further evidence of their preparation. MageEnhanced gear—like the masks they wore—was costly. These not only disguised their voices but also protected them from the debilitating effects of the toxin. The fragmented thoughts bouncing through his mind triggered a memory. In the frenzy of troubles with the King, grand galas with Marlaine, and exploration of the Roost, he’d forgotten a most important experience.

  His last few days had been eye-opening, so much so that his mind and senses struggled to keep up with the meteoric changes. So foreign were his new skills that the thought that flashed to mind ignited a spark of wicked glee in light of his present situation.

  The Shadows Shroud would grant him protection from the poison as well. They charged with the expectation that their target would be incapacitated, free for the kill. Yet they would be sorely mistaken.

  Risens sucked in a deep breath as he took rapid stock of the situation. The air tasted foul with a potent tang, but beyond the stench, the effects were mitigated by the mask.

  His right arm throbbed, dripping a steady stream of blood over the stone and grass, and he was without a weapon of his own. He was, however, far from incapacitated. That gave his assailants pause.

  The closest assassin stopped and fell into a fighting stance, leaving time for his companions to catch up. Though two were wounded from his knives, both were still indelibly lethal. Incensed by the blade that had ripped into his shoulder, the killer changed into the lead, demanding justice for the injury. Limping from the wound to his leg, the other had fallen to the rear of the group, moving gingerly to keep up. He paused momentarily to cut a strip of fabric from his shirt, tying it into a tourniquet over his wound.

  As Risens stepped around the body of his dead companion, Risens noted a peculiarity. The talon that had protruded from the man’s skull was gone. He knew none of the assassins would have had the time to collect it. Perhaps the blasts had knocked it free. Did that explain the sudden faltering of the countdown? While he was disappointed by the disappearance, he had larger problems to contend with. In the end, blades, no matter how special, were meaningless if he were dead.

  Instinctively, his free hand shifted to his sheath. Surprise blossomed within him as his fingers closed around the unmistakable grip. Deep in his mind, he swore he heard the echoes of a raving, diabolical cackle. The whisper turned into a scream as he again drew the blade. The symbol at the bottom of his vision flashed back to life. His right, more dominant arm, was weakened by the shrapnel, but still lethally effective. Extensive training had developed his left into a near mirror in skill.

  He reached for his other sheath and found the second Ravens Talon to be there as well.

  He had no time to ponder the unexpected return of the blades, the countdowns, or the thoughts of how his assailants would press the attack as they swarmed forward. With no room for explosives or numbers, they were forced by the confines of the hedges to attack in pairs with a second line of reserves lingering patiently behind.

  Risens had trained with masters of the blade, though from an early age, he had been steeped in brutally painful lessons that in battle, fair play was a death sentence. Honor in combat was a thing of myth, meant for stories and theater. Those who dedicated their beliefs and talent to it were often the first to die. The grittiest fighter was rarely the prettiest in form. Lethal efficiencies were far more valuable.

  Skilled as they were, with the Raven Talons in his hand, it was clear that his enemies’ chances were slim. A well-planned surprise had been their best opportunity, and in the absence of that, explosives and poison had taken over. Now, facing their opponent in close quarters, their weaknesses were exposed.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  With a growl, Risens released the pent-up anger that had brewed inside, leaping into their midst before their coordinated attacks could land. The ring of steel against steel echoed through the hedges, getting lost among the beds and turns. He fought with a well-trained mastery of the arts, yet every slash and every parry of his blade felt foreign as the talons battled with him to perfect his approach. Though each motion was slight, merely fractions—a twist of his wrist or bend of the elbow—it was disturbing, as if he were just a puppet swinging from the hands of borrowed blades. He knew it was a gross misrepresentation of his skills, but his mental argument stopped in his tracks as the blade in his right arm dragged across the torso of the assassin with the wounded shoulder, crossing all the way to his waist.

  With a whimper, the man’s own blade slipped from his hand. Falling to his knees, he frantically squeezed his arms together in a desperate attempt to hold the flaying wound together and keep his insides within. The slash severed his belt, dropping the empty sheath and the various tools of his trade to the ground. Unnoted until this point, the narrow, solid rectangular case that hung from his hip opened when it contacted the stone. A pair of vials—one marked with a red stopper and the other with green—rolled from the inside.

  Fending off an attack from the left with a blade that clearly had a mind of its own, a swift kick sent the dying man into the hedge while one of the others filled the gap their companion had vacated. Sensing the shifting tide, the assassin with the wounded leg hung back from the fray, his eyes wide, brimming with indecision.

  Risens’ appetite for the battle waned as the moments stretched on. The pair, uninjured apart from minor lacerations, had pressed him hard and forced him into a defensive posture. He was never one for long, drawn-out contests, preferring to end his fights as quickly as possible. He was built for stealth and speed, not swordplay.

  With his blades yearning for blood and their countdowns decreasing, it was a swift, powerful slash that provided an unexpected stroke of luck. The assassin’s rebounding short sword nicked the side of his face. The sharp blade sliced through the fabric of his mageEnhanced mask. Risens feigned a dramatic charge, and the man played right into his hands, jumping back a step to give Risens the space he needed.

  With a lunge, Risens slammed his foot down on the exposed green-topped mageVial that had rolled from the now still assassin’s case. He ducked under an angry attack as the cloud of poison billowed from the shattered vial. He saw the panic form in the man’s eyes as realization of his plight struck him harder than any weapon. Sucking in a desperate breath to avoid the toxin, the man again left himself open. Risens’ fist pistoned into the assassin’s gut. The man grunted before sucking in an involuntary breath of deadly air. The effect was immediate. He wavered before collapsing, his hand clawing at the fabric of his mask to prevent more of the toxin from entering his lungs. The damage, however, was already done.

  Still standing to the rear, the final assassin’s indecision faded. Dragging his useless leg behind him, he hobbled away as fast as his good leg would take him. But that would not do. Risens pounced. Slow as his retreat was, Risens reached him with no effort. The Talon in his left hand rejoiced as it sliced upward through the assassin’s neck. The tip drove straight through and found an exit through the man’s eyeball.

  Risens wrenched the weapon free from the man’s skull, stepping back as the blood and body poured to the ground. Someone had sent eight assassins to ambush him; only one remained, though his fate was sealed. Torture was no threat to men of this caliber and experience. He would expect to garner no pertinent information from his lips.

  Though luck had played a part, it was a combination of skill and the devastating effectiveness of the Ravens Talons that had saved the day. He grinned, noting the feathered handle of the blade again sticking out of the sheath on his right hip as the corresponding symbol faded. That they could not only track their victims, but could return on their own was an unexpected boon, time limit or not.

  His attention shifted quickly to the blubbering assassin kneeling among the wreckage of five of his companions. Through heavily glazed eyes, he watched Risens stalk toward him as if he were in two distinctly different places at once, his pupils diverging to follow motions, neither of which belonged to him.

  Risens stopped a pace away from where the man wavered on his knees. Even disabled, a trained killer could still be lethal. As he watched the thoughts turn in the man’s mind, he collected the sturdy wooden case that had contained the mageVials. More information would likely be deciphered from it than from the assassin. No sooner had he collected the box than the man’s babbling drivel became comprehensible words.

  “Your fate,” he mumbled. “Sealed.”

  With a jerking motion, he twisted the bracer on his left wrist. The unexpected motion was planned and purposeful—a thin needle shot out from the end. A green poison dripped from it. But before he could lash out with the concealed toxin, Risens acted.

  Slamming his foot down on the man’s forearm, he pinned the weak appendage down, driving the needle into the dirt. Immediately, the already dying blades of grass that struggled to sprout from the dry ground wilted into shriveled stems.

  The man growled as he spat obscenities.

  “Fuc—”

  Risens’ patience had expired.

  Snatching the red-topped glass vial, he shoved it into the cursing assassin’s mouth. A swift uppercut slammed his jaw shut, and the muffled cracking was not bone.

  He would get no more information from the assassin.

  Eight had been sent to kill him, yet they had underestimated him to their own demise. He knew the next time there would be more, though he would be ready. The treasures found in the Roost had been his savior, though it had been far too close.

  Mother Raven’s message that he was still unprepared rang over the high-pitched whistling in his ears.

  With the small wooden case in hand, he darted around the corner of the hedge as the dim explosion spattered the assassin over the maze.