Black clouds and rain echoed the foreboding sentiment as the company hastened along Breakker’s Pass. Fluctuating anywhere between a slight drizzle and a pervasive ice sheet, it blanketed their movements. Thankfully, the rain-resistant clothing repelled much of the water, though it could not stop all. They would be grateful for the dry gear in the lined and insulated packs they each carried.

  With only a scattering of loose dirt accumulating between the stones, they left no tracks, though each slick step threatened doom in the form of a fall over the edge. From here, that would be lethal. The sudden drenching weather explained the disastrous plummet of the pair of sentries.

  Feylen and Orio had lashed themselves together as one, as was common for movement along the cliff when the weather turned inclement. The safety precaution was often less than safe. At times, it presented its own kind of threat, proving far more costly as, instead of losing one to an unfortunate turn of foot, both could perish in one fell swoop.

  If the track of the patrol only represented one of the concealed posts, how long would it take for their compatriots—perhaps those who found better fortune—to notice their absence? The only thing Risens was certain of was that no one from their ill-fated camp would come looking for them.

  What could have caused such an inordinate amount of carnage troubled his thoughts. There was no question that the hands of men were not directly responsible for the brutal killings. Whether man might have controlled the responsible beast by magic or mechanism was unclear. He searched through the expansive catalog of information in his mind, finding nothing of use.

  It was that uncertainty that caused him the most distress.

  His senses, which had kept him alive throughout his years, were on high alert. They cried out with alarm and warning, pointing to every shifting shadow or perceived motion in the rain and mists.

  It was a silent and determined hike through the night. In the waning hours of darkness, their pace slowed to a crawl. Ahead, a second encampment came into view. Whatever had harried the first outpost had neither harassed them as they traveled the darkness nor fallen upon the enemy post. Around the fire, nearly thirty Shial soldiers—all dressed in the silver and forest green colors of Warlord Trufang—went about all manner of expected activity.

  As much as the Raven Talons begged for blood, he denied them the pleasure. Something scratched at Risens' very soul. These weapons, vibrating with expectation at his sides… they were thinking creatures. They had wants and needs, and that struck fear in his heart. What if their demands for violence became more than he could bear? Would he become a wanton killer, taking the lives of any and all the blades coaxed him toward?

  No. He shook his head as if answering the unspoken question, further solidifying in his worry that he was losing control. He could not allow the Ravens Talons to jeopardize his mission.

  He glanced around as the party crouched beside him. They were talented assassins, and their continued survival assured him they were neither fools nor foolish with their judgments. He would have to be the same for them. More than them. A leader, trustworthy and intentional.

  The reckless get lucky.

  Fate always catches up.

  When it does, it’s messy and routinely fatal.

  Two Shial soldiers stood watch near the pass. Slipping by the sentries—an easy action under the cover of darkness and rain—was a far more tenable option. Eliminating a company of soldiers—condensed as they were—without raising alarm was, at best, precarious. As Risens knew all too well, battles rarely went as planned, and while by training, they were well-suited to adapt, he and his fellows were on foreign soil and in unfamiliar terrain.

  The task ahead, the true purpose of their quest, was not assured. Many miles still needed to be crossed before they reached the warlord’s stronghold. There, the true test would begin.

  Stalking through the shadows, they easily bypassed the first sentry, who was more concerned with staying dry and warm than maintaining a keen eye over the waterlogged path.

  The second was, unfortunately, far more diligent. Risens called with a silent hand for those who followed him to mimic his actions. He dropped to his belly and slithered over the slick stones.

  When he was within striking distance, the others knew by instinct to tarry. It wasn’t long before the Shial man fell to a dagger through his neck.

  Risens dropped again. Then, slowly turning to appraise the others, he motioned for them to continue through the frigid cold until they had fully passed any danger.

  From this vantage, it became clear that the number of soldiers was double what he’d initially believed. Warlord Trufang was well-informed and determined to waylay King Lathrenon’s plans to establish a working trade route between the nations.

  The treacherous path had never been used extensively, and as such, was deemed a poor use of resources by the Kingdom of Halthome. With the knowledge that the southernmost warlord protested their attempts to unite the lands by means of commerce, it was neither patrolled by the kingdom nor secure at the Halthome end. As far as Lathrenon was concerned, any seeking to risk their lives among the twists and turns of the pass were free to do so at their own leisure.

  Trufang, however, had evidently seized on the opportunity, understanding the newfound importance of Breakker’s Pass. It was vital for goods to travel the length of the Shial Sliver. Any other route would require a distance of several hundred miles. Goods and foodstuffs from the fertile plains would long have gone to rot if such lengthy travel were required.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  That Sagra Trufang had defied the other warlords of Shial was curious. He could have, instead, used the prime location of his lands at the very border between Halthome and Shial to his advantage. A well-placed blockade would have afforded him leverage, an opportunity to exact a higher price from King Lathrenon. Yet he had chosen hostility. He’d fortified Breakker’s Pass with his soldiers without demanding any price for passage.

  He was either a fool or too full of pride to accept anything from his southern neighbors. Perhaps those were simply two sides of the same coin.

  To Risens, the implications were clear. He didn’t want Halthome’s gold. He would feed on their suffering. He was content to watch them starve, to foment the continued discourse that rippled through the Kingdom like a boulder dropped into the still waters of a deep well.

  For this, he would pay.

  Risens and his assassins were the hands of His Majesty’s justice.

  The timing of the gambit was odd. It seemed the pieces of a vast puzzle with drastic and wide-ranging implications were falling into place faster than the King could prevent.

  Faster than his Rightmaker could silence them.

  Something, however, had gone astray. The wreckage of the first outpost was a testament to this deadly fact. Had Shial suffered from the same infighting and rebellion that plagued Halthome? No matter how he considered the cause of the massacre, he failed to reason a single idea that stuck with any actual plausibility.

  “We should split ‘em all, mouth to crack, ” Feylen grumbled as she joined the others under the partial cover of the ledge. “Didn’t know the King’s Rightmaker was afraid of a fight.”

  She let the whispered insult hang in the air.

  Risens was comfortable letting it get washed away by the rain. He had purposefully positioned himself in the deepest shadows along the side of the rock. His expressionless face, even if not shrouded by his mask, was hidden in the darkness while the low light of the soggy night brought theirs to bear.

  Korpis retained his perpetual scowl, while Bakka’s features were unreadable. Destra subtly shook his head at Feylen’s taunts while Orio’s eyes registered with a flash of unexpected excitement, as if he shared in the Ravens Talons’ longing for the fight he assumed would follow.

  “Do not forget your place, assassin,” Risens finally growled in return, knowing that for the good of his leadership, he could not let the insult go unanswered. His hand had slid down until it rested on the hilt of the Talon. His hushed voice dripped with malice. “I am the King’s Rightmaker. I receive my orders from His Majesty and none other. You will obey and not question. There will be time for bloodshed soon enough.”

  For a moment, Feylen looked to be teetering on the verge of mutiny. Her hands balled in and out of fists, tight enough for the whitening of her knuckles to peek through the darkness.

  A reflection in the night’s gloom flashed at her side—a sliver of Destra’s blade as it cleared his sheath. She saw it too, and the burning of rebellion faded from her eyes in a blink.

  “By His Excellency’s orders,” she grumbled with a slight nod. She shifted slightly, moving back a fraction of a step.

  In the world of the assassin, movements measured by inches could spell the difference between a scratch along the neck or a slit throat.

  As surprised as he was, Risens didn’t fault her for the outburst. They were killers, after all. Denying them a fight was like telling the ravens to hold their tongues.

  “At sun’s first light, we will find a place to bed down and rest,” he commanded. “We proceed until then. The faster we complete this task, the sooner you can return to the lives you led. Am I understood? The King makes no requests. Nor do I.”

  Each of the assassins gave their acknowledgment, though he fully understood that most of them likely lied through their teeth.

  Sleep would be a premium until this task was complete. He found that the solace of the Roost was far more desirable by the moment.

  With the grumbles of dissent past, they continued, following the winding path as it snaked through the mountains. Leaving the outpost behind them, the perpetual incline of the pass leveled for a spell before reversing as they flanked the peak. The view from the pinnacle of the mountain was said to be impressive. In the middle of the night, during a rainstorm, avoiding patrols while on the run from whatever had desecrated the outpost without leaving a trace, the majesty was entirely lost on him.

  Having the encampment of soldiers at their back would have seemingly been a disadvantage. However, given the present circumstances, if whatever destroyed the other post was still out there, it would only provide another obstacle between it and them.

  Risens stalked at the head of their silent, staggered procession as it slowly descended the winding pass.

  He was weary, having been deprived of sleep for over a day. His vision, in constant motion, cataloging the shadows while keeping track of his assassin companions, only added to his exhaustion. The brightening backlighting of the rocky skyline to the east should have been a reason for celebration; however, it only caused him more distress. With an end in sight, he would be hard-pressed to issue the command for respite even if only a few hours would rejuvenate him.

  The descent into Shial brought its own pitfalls. The serpentine path through the mountain was now bordered by the sheer walls of a deep gorge. The river that cut through the stone was lost in the depths of the darkness. Fueled by the storm still pouring, the rumble of its swelling rapids droned out any sounds of their approach. They hugged the far side of the pass.

  Bakka, who was again leading the group, stopped abruptly, holding a hand skyward in a silent command for a pause. That his other hand now carried his blade was telling. He withdrew the signal, quickly waving them forward with an unexpected urgency.

  “It seems the warlord isn’t content to merely block the path,” he whispered. “Why not just murder and rob the locals as well? Have a look for yourself.”

  Risens peered around the edge of the rock at the corner of the switchback. Fifty meters down the track, another of the small but frequent openings was cut into the side of the trail. Several figures moved beside a lone covered wagon.

  A snarl pulled on the corner of his lips at the sight of a soldier dressed in the colors of Warlord Trufang’s house. The bastard’s sword plunged through the heart of a kneeling man, hands in the air, begging for mercy. The steel glistened in the halos of long, bright alchemical torches hanging off the wagon's sides while the Shial driver worked to turn the stolen wagon around on the slick stones. The fountain of blood that poured from the man’s back disappeared as the shifting lights moved from his form.

  The sight they illuminated as they moved only incensed him further. They were cold and soaked nearly to the bone, yet the inferno in him was hot enough to melt off any chill that could have persisted. The fires of Pylkev paled in comparison to his anger.

  Thankfully, the swinging lights only illuminated the pile of bodies for an instant, though it was long enough to know the true cost. These were not warriors, but a family. The soldiers had even butchered the pair of horses that had pulled the light wagon.

  Risens’ hands squeezed around the handles of the Talons. For once, his own urge for violence silenced the normally insatiable blades.

  It was Feylen’s eyes that he met as his vision scanned over his companions before settling back over the soldier who now wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s back.

  “You can now be satisfied,” he told her.

  “We can kill ‘em?”

  “Yes. You can have the rest. That one is mine.”