Risens listened by the firelight as the assassins named themselves.

  Bakka, the first to identify himself—or at least to offer the name by which he was to be called—was the shortest of the group. At nearly a head shorter than Risens, the man had a compact build reminiscent of an ale keg. Despite his size, he had a distinct air of competence. Curly blond hair framed his face—one that was square and anvil-like and bore the remnants of several thin scars. Unlike the others, he carried a bow slung over his shoulder, and a quiver brimming with arrows strapped to his hip.

  To Bakka’s side, the only woman amongst the group, scowled from across the fire. She was tall, towering over the shorter assassin, though roughly the same height as Risens and the others. She alone had a sword sheathed at her side. If her inclusion in the group wasn’t proof enough, the confidence and poise with which she carried herself, even seated, assured him of her prowess. He sensed not even a twinge of arrogance, but she demanded respect in a manner that no fabrication could achieve.

  She wore her blonde hair long, but kept it braided tightly to her head and pulled back into a complicated looking knot. Her brows came to a sharp point above deep chasms of black eyes. Her look was nearly as severe as her words.

  “Me given name has no bearing on our mission, nor is it any of yer bloody concern,” she grumbled. “But suren as me ma counted her bedpost notches by the hundreds, if ye call me, girl, woman, vixen, or any other derogatory term, I’ll cut out yer little bits and feed ’em to ye sideways. That spoken, Feylen, will suffice.”

  Risens grinned at the brutal honesty and genuine threat that poured from her mouth. She was a limited quantity among a profession dominated by men. Gender, as he knew, was no indicator of how proficient or lethal an assassin could be. The few females he’d known throughout the years had outlived many of their male counterparts.

  A sudden cackle of laughter broke through the silence that followed her threat. As if the hilarity could only be contained for so long until it exploded out, one of the assassins at the end of the group, stood and double over at the waist.

  “Well met, Feylen, he began. “I’m sure His Majesty would be thrilled to catch word that his assassins murdered themselves before even reaching the pass. Fear not, I’ll pick on the wee one at your side.” He chuckled at his dangerous humor, though he pressed his palms to the air in a placating manner. “Destra is my name—my real and right name—so feel free to use it at will.”

  He finished his statement with exaggerated bow.

  The man carried himself with a swagger that was odd for a man of his station. His jovial face seemed more apt be a bard or a some pompous noble than a killer.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  This time it was the assassin at his side who grumbled. He had the look of a man the gods had intentionally formed to be overlooked. Even the tone of his voice was dull and uninteresting.

  Destra held his hands to his chest feigning injury. “You wound me mortally, Orio. After all the time we spent skulking in the shadows, the blows have come right out in the open. Oh, and Raven, I’ll save you the headache of trying to get a word from the last brute. Korpis rarely speaks and when he does, its utter nonsense.”

  The last in the group—Korpis if Destra could be believed—glowered, though the man swatted away the daggers in his look with casual disregard.

  While Orio appeared to be built to blend in with his surroundings, Korpis’s appearance could have invoked terror from a mountain face. His cheeks and forehead were crisscrossed with a web of scars while his deep set eyes and high cheekbones gave him a malnourished, ghoulish look. So numerous were the slashes that marred his face, Risens wonderedif many were, if fact, self-inflicted.

  That he accompanied the party was a testament to his skill. They were all the King’s assassins after all. Their loyalty to crown and kingdom were not in question. He was in uncertain and deadly company.

  There was little appetite for banter after the brief introductions and a quick meal. The fire burned down low as the depth of the night set in. Clouds blotted out the view of the moon and stars, leaving the mountains bathed in a pale blue light with deep shadows from the rocks leaving wide swaths of near total darkness. Against the backdrop of stone, the drab outfits provided the assassins a measure of camouflage blending into the natural background.

  “We move at first light,” Risens ordered as they snuffed out they final embers. “Single file through the pass. We’ve seen no one yet, save those whose home we entered through. I doubt Trufang is content to merely block the entrance on the Shial side. Halthome only mounts scattered patrols. Expect a fight along the way.”

  “One can only hope.” Destra grinned.

  While Risens hadn’t had the pleasure of working in the presence of others for much of his infamous career, it was clear that many of these had. That several knew each other with some relative degree of familiarity was concerning to him. What tasks had the crown assigned to allow them the opportunity to collaborate with such frequency? He knew none by face or name, a fact that was entirely expected. It was likely by design. He was certain that with the completion of this task, they would again disappear into obscurity.

  Halthome covered a wide landmass, stretching hundreds of miles from the Cimmerian Peaks in the west to Diendronadaand the lifeless Drylands in the east. Sea Solace was just south of Windwake, drawing a natural border, and King Lathrenon’s domain continued northward all the way to the Shial Sliver. They likely served the crown, yet hunted in and haunted different locales.

  They were less than an hour into the trek through Breakker’s Pass when the moon cut sliced the clouds, spewing its wanlight across the mountains. Without having to be commanded, the assassins moved as one—not unlike a flock of birds—disappearing into the heavy shadows. It added extra steps to their journey but the habit was ingrained into the very fiber of their beings.

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  Caution fueled, Risens scanned their surroundings. If they were at risk of being seen, they could, too, see any others within view. There were none.

  To their left, the wall of the canyon sloped for a few meters before dropping down the sheer face of the mountain. They had gained elevation; inclined steadily as they walked. Nearly five hundred meters below, in a wide clearing at corner of the ranges, the flickering lights from the torches that illuminated Adalhard’s Plaza looked like tiny candles. In the center of the plaza, bathed in the cool blue light of the moon, the darkened form of the shrine stood out like a black smudge against the stone of the surrounding patio.

  A strange longing filled his senses. Fendri had warned them not to tarry at the shrine. Perhaps he had known that the draw was too much, for at the moment, it was exactly what he wanted to do. Was it on that hallowed ground where the ancient King was first Branded in the image of the Raven? Story had been told for ages of his Branding as the Bloodheir, but what if there was more?

  As much as he wanted to believe, there was something about the convenience—the accessibility of the locale that painted even the concept as impossible. Having witnessed firsthand the power of the forbidden Brands, Risens was more inclined to believe the tales of Adalhard’s heroism, yet he felt no attraction beyond mere curiosity to the site.

  The inky depth of the night beat down upon them, though there was no fire to ward off the unyielding chill. When they’dstepped from the windStep and into the small cottage, it had been cold. Now, that cold had frozen into an icy permanence. Through the collars pulled up over their noses, blasts of steam puffed out with every breath, whisking away with the whipping winds.

  They were hours and miles into the mountains, separated from the kingdom of Halthome by rigid, snow covered peaks. They’d left the partial cover and protection of the trees and now faced the gelidity head on as it ripped through the bare rocks. Risens had worked in higher elevations as a part of his expansive training. He remembered distinctly the lack of oxygen, like breathing through a small reed, getting small doses when one’s lungs craved a full breath. He noted the slowed movements and the strain exhibited by the others, yet for him, breathing through the Shadows Shroud felt as natural as ever.

  The mask had been bestowed upon him as the mark of his true form. He’d seen the majestic ravens circling on the winds, nothing but specks against the blue firmament. If they thrived there, so too could he.

  Seeing the signs of struggle grow in his companions, he called another stop to their progress. The indents along the path, smaller than the one at the base, had been more frequent as they ascended higher.

  “Me bloody flask is frozen,” Feylen said, tipping it as if to prove her point.

  “The snow will be your salvation,” Risens said. “Drink. Regain your strength. We cannot tarry long and yet survive.”

  The woman, Feylen, shoved the others aside to gather up a scoop of powder. Risens allowed the others to do the same, and finally, he took of it himself.

  Eating or drinking with the Shadows Shroud was difficult, but a small gap beneath its beak allowed for clear entry past his lips. The snow was frigid, crisp, clear, and most importantly, rejuvenating. They all drank deep, maintaining their hydration as they allowed their bodies time to acclimate to the change in elevation. Having never traversed the path, he had no clear understanding of when they would reach the peak, just west of the center of the twisting trail. From the descriptions, the road undulated up and down, though more of the former until the pinnacle. From there, it followed the reverse track as is winded downward into the warmer plains of Shial.

  Treacherous pitfalls lined the road at nearly every corner. Their eyes, trained to the darkness over years of experience, were attuned far better than the average citizen or soldier. Still, dangers in the dark were exponentially heightened. They sat in silence, conserving their breath while the waited.

  Of all the others, it was Bakka who seemed to fair the best with the changes. The assassin slid closer. Discretely, Risens shifted his hand to his blade, his fingers brushing against the feathered hilt. The irrational screams for violence begged for him to draw the weapon, to fall upon the others, cut them down for their weakness.

  “The others are not as attuned to the altitude as you or I, it seems,” Bakka whispered. “Perhaps you’d grant me leave to scout ahead.”

  The sudden sound of a stone skipping against stone somewhere along the trail forced him to silence the assassin with a gesture. His sudden motion brought the others to silent attention. To a man—and woman—each had their hands on their blades.

  Risens motioned silently for the others to stay while he signaled to Bakka follow him. Stepping from one large stone to the next, they crept through the thick shadows of the rocky peaks toward the winding roadway ahead.

  Stopping just before the track, he called Bakka to a halt—which the man, thankfully, obeyed. Straining his ears against the moaning of the wind and the quiet bubbling of the stream behind them, it wasn’t long before another pebble, this time barely big enough to noticeable, skipped down the path a few meters before him.

  Accented voices, hushed, but lively, filtered through the wind. “This is a fool’s errand. We’ll either freeze or plummet to our deaths before we find anything.”

  “Quit belly-aching,” said another.

  “We’ve been at this for weeks,” the first argued, “spending hours almost every night, marching damn near a quarter of the pass in darkness. No one’s stupid enough to be climbing around here this late.”

  “We’ve got our orders,” the other man said, an air of annoyance in his tone.

  “His Grace is fooling himself to think this will amount to anything other than a rise in cases of frostbite.”

  The dull thump of a fist against meaty flesh echoed through the night.

  “If you weren’t family, I’d throw you off this damn ledge myself,” the second voice growled. “The more complaining you do, the longer this patrol takes and the longer it is before we can warm up by the fire. Shut up and deal with it.”

  Risens and Bakka flattened themselves against the side of the rock as the pair of soldiers crept past their location. The dividing sentiment among the patrol was telling, through the wording was curious. Said in jest, the title—His Grace—was one Risens heard applied not to Warlords, but to Kings. That they had come from further up the trail was as much of a relief as it was a concern. He was glad they hadn’t wandered by the sentries without noticing the position of their camp. It stood to reason that if there was one post hidden among the peaks, there would would likely be more.

  The thrill of excitement warmed him, though Risens knew they would need to be careful. If a battle broke out, and any were to escape—if their presence was noted—the warlord would only fortify this location, making their task problematic.

  Returning to the King with a task incomplete was not something Risens had a proclivity for. His life was proof of the validity of his claim.

  He had no intention of starting now.

  Silently, they watched the pair of Shial soldiers, complaints now muted as they leaned against the wind, trudge up the track a few meters. Their previous attempts at stealth had devolved into heavy footsteps that sent loose stone careening down the pathway behind them.

  “Bakka, collect the others,” Risens whispered. “It’s time we move.”