Maintaining their stealthy pursuit, they trailed the pair of Shial soldiers along the mountain path, darting from shadow to shadow. They could have walked along the center of the track with little concern for all the care the two were giving to their surroundings, but training and common sense dictated their caution.

  In a long, single-file line, they moved ever steadily along Breakker’s Pass. Bakka was in the lead while Risens followed just far enough behind that the man’s stealthy shadow was still visible through the gloom of the night. Feylen took third in line, with Orio, Korpis and then, finally, Destra bringing up the rear. He thought it wise to separate Feylen from the unexpectedly jovial Destra, or else he wouldn’t be surprised if one or both ended up dead.

  The wind had intensified as they ascended. Free from even the limited protection of the westernmost peaks, it blew strong and cold, swirling around them in wicked gusts. Each blast drove needles through his clothing while the ghostly cry of rushing wind moaned in his ears.

  A particularly strong squall brought with it a wail that seemed to linger longer than the wind lashed through the stones. Ahead, Bakka stopped in the shadows of the trail, having reached a bend in the track. Keeping silent and sure-footed, Risens put on a measure of speed to overtake the assassin.

  “Something’s amiss,” Bakka whispered as he reached his side. “That was not merely wind. Look there, beside that tree husk against the mountain in the distance.”

  Risens followed the man’s extended finger. Under the pale light of the moon and stars, the rocky faces of the mountains—the various boulders and stone—all took on the same muted hue. However, he spotted the trunk, and against the looming vertical face of one of the sheer spires of the Shial Sliver, he saw the minor, yet distinct orange glow.

  A fire burned amongst the rocks, its light flickering erratically.

  “The pair took on speed as soon as they rounded this bend,” Bakka continued. By now, the others had caught up and had their keen eyes trained in the direction of their attention as well. “It was hard to tell through the darkness, though I don’t believe it was the promise of warmth that fueled their steps.”

  “I heard the moaning on the wind,” Risens noted.

  “As did I,” Destra chimed in. “Though I thought it was just Feylen lost in fantasies about me.”

  “Enough,” Risens growled before the useless banter forced the woman to remove Destra’s grin-marked head from his shoulders.

  “I agree with Bakka’s assessment,” Risens continued. “Why go through the trouble with all the silent patrols only to burn a beacon? Orio, Korpis, Feylen, watch the road. Bakka and Destra, with me.”

  “I’m in the crowd now,” Destra taunted.

  Risens turned back. “No, I just don’t trust you to not get yourself tossed from the cliff-side.”

  Feylen smirked at that.

  “Let’s move,” Risens said.

  There was no clear path among the rocky peaks, with every boulder or outcropping providing another place for Shialsoldiers to hide. Beyond the low scrub brushes clinging desperately to the frozen rocks, there was no vegetation this high up the mountain. They hadn’t made it far when the sounds of rapid footsteps from the camp and shifting stones cracked through the air.

  Risens flattened himself to the backside of a rock, pulling one of the Ravens Talons partially from its sheath. The blade’s anticipation vibrated excitedly in his mind. Bakka and Destra disappeared from view as they too sought shelter. A rapid check of the others found nothing but shadows.

  Without warning, a man spilled across the rocks a few meters to Risens’ side, grunting in pain as he scraped across the stones. A breath later, the second grabbed him from behind, wrenching him to his feet.

  “Get up, bacha’ch! Keep up or Ill leave you to greet the others in Pylkev.”

  Risens recognized the voice as one of the sentries that had wandered by their position. His animated tones from earlier were now frantic, dripping with fear. The pair scrambled past, throwing occasional panicked glances over their shoulders toward the encampment they were fleeing.

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  Even though the immediate threat of discovery had past—the pair running at breakneck speed away from his location—he couldn’t bring himself to release his hold on the Talon.

  Greet the others in Pylkev.

  There was something far more alarming ahead than just the ill-advised firelight. As if waiting for the cue of Risens’ troubled thoughts, a man’s pained cry echoed from behind. The source was immediately clear. The pair of fleeing sentries had met with the rest of his party. Their frantic flight would continue no further.

  “They run as if being chased,” Bakka whispered, appearing from the shadow where he’d concealed his form. Destra crouched to his side.

  “They run as if they were on fire,” Destra added. “Though we’ll get no information from them. Orio and Korpis tend to use their blades before words. Terrible interrogators, the pair of them.”

  Risens motioned Bakka and Drestra forward. Drawing the Talon, the symbol flashed into view in the lower right corner of his vision. The insatiable bloodlust mounted.

  Twenty-three.

  It was curious that the timer remained where it had been when he’d last used the blades. Unlike the mask where a period of cool down was required before it could be removed, sheathing the blades apparently had no impact on the duration of their use. Not willing to waste the precious time, he stowed the blade, switching it with a crown-issued one. The familiar grip of the handle now felt cold and awkward.

  It was not a thought that, at the present, he could give any credence to. Diverting any attention from their surroundings would be foolhardy at best. Shifting the entirety of his focus back to the situation at hand, he motioned for the pair of assassins to follow.

  Silently, they slid over and around the rocky outcroppings and ledges. It was slow, purposeful movement. Even with the flight of the sentries, there was no telling what lurked around each boulder, or what hazards dwelled in the myriad crevices.

  The acrid smell of the fire increased, carried by the swirling winds. The wavering glow from the blaze ahead, however, had decreased with time as they neared. The steady amber aura on the rocks now splashed wildly as the flames clung to life.

  Risens stopped abruptly as the odor in the air—something beneath the char—wrinkled his nose.

  For one adept at dealing in the dark arts as he was, the aromas of blood and death were all too familiar. Peeking around the next boulder, the traces of lingering scents gave way to a clear image to back the smell.

  Set in a small, natural bowl in the cliff, the disguised encampment had been protected from view and the elements. Wind now whipped through the space, blowing sparks and scraps of fabric across the stone. At first glance, there was no telling how many tents or soldiers had occupied the compact lookout.

  The devastation was complete.

  Even for one trained in the bloody, savage art of assassination, the carnage was shocking. The King’s assassination of Lady Myrenas was brutal and deliberate. The scene before Risens now was pure wanton destruction. Bodies were torn to shreds, left in scraps strewn around the rocks. Not a single, insulated fur-lined tent remained standing, the tattered remnants slashed into strips that blew errantly around the gore of the camp. The carefully constructed signal fire littered the outpost in shattered chunks of wood and tinder. The reason for the rapid flight of the sentries was entirely justified.

  Risens fought the unexpected urge to do the same.

  Whatever or whoever had done this had not been gone long. The patrol had grumbled about the hours they spent traipsing the pass in the depths of the night, so this had happened after they had set out.

  Risens shifted forward, placing his feet to carefully avoid the splatters of crimson as he stalked toward the remains of one of the soldiers. He rested his hand against the exposed pale flesh of a dismembered torso. The skin was cold, though it still remained a hint of its latent heat.

  “Whatever did this has only been gone for a matter of hours,” he whispered to the assassins crouched around him. Their eyes cautiously scanned the shadows beyond the fading influence of the fire’s light.

  “Men are the largest creature I know of that hunts in the mountain peaks.” Destra’s hushed voice was barely audible over the low moaning of the wind. The normal easiness of his voice had darkened into a tentative, foreboding tone. “Bears and wolves prowl the highlands, while rumors of the occasional dragon have persisted for years. Sentinels, perhaps, but this doesn’t have the look of feel of their work. The only thing I am certain of is that this was not the product of human hands.”

  As much as Risens didn’t want to believe it, there was truth to the logic. Risens had killed before, framing the attack on a natural predator. The custom weapons—multi-bladed and sharp—were clumsy, made more for effect. And in those missions, his prey had been solitary. The devastation here was far more thorough. This was not done as a means to pass convolute the blame. Inert scraps of the soldiers were cast around the encampment along with their ravaged gear and shreds of fabric.

  This was not the work of an assassin, nor damage wrought by swords. The vicious slashes that carved through the flesh were wide and jagged, like claws or talons of a massive beast. The blaze flared for a moment as a blood-soaked scrap of cloth was blown into its fiery embrace.

  “There’s nothing more we can do here,” Risens noted. “I don’t know what did this but we shouldn’t linger.”

  Beyond the fire reflecting in the eyes of the hardened assassins that crouched by his side, another distinct emotion burned: fear.