There was little need for discussion. The trained killers understood the mission implicitly. By Risens’ best count, the patrol only consisted of twelve Shial warriors.

  He considered those good odds.

  His anger alone could have engulfed them, consumed them in the fire of his wrath. Risens would let the others have their kills. More than just to feed their bloodlust, he knew it would keep their blades from turning on him.

  There was no justification that held weight for avoiding this fight. He would have a mutiny on his hands if he allowed them to keep breathing. “Morally responsible” and “assassin” weren’t typically words used to describe the same individual.

  Bakka and Feylen bounced on their toes, no doubt itching for some sense of justice, while Destra’s deadlocked eyes were telling—a chilling departure from his norm. They burned with fire, his bubbly personality hardening into a steely, emotionless threat of violence.

  Risens waited along the edge of the track, hidden in shadows as the others moved silently into position. Running through the scenario in his mind, he had little concern for the outcome. The warriors before them were already dead, condemned to Pylkev merely by Risens’ decision to make it so. Nothing they could do would prevent their inevitable demise.

  Miles from the closest outpost, under the cover of rain, darkness, and the rumbling river, none would see their approach. The enemy’s cries for help would go unheard.

  A glinting blade in the darkness at the far edge of the small rest area was the sign that his assassins were in place. Adjusting his cloak and cowl as he stood, Risens’ hands shifted to the feathered handles of the talons. The pleading, desperate urge for bloodshed was nearly deafening.

  “Patience. Your time will soon come,” he whispered to himself as he walked forward.

  The screaming urge that blossomed in his mind was silenced by his words. The deadly desire still there simmered in anticipatory silence.

  Risens was perplexed by the response. He had never been on to talk to or name with weapons as some soldiers and assassins were prone to doing. It made little sense to him, yet here he was, communicating with weapons that could apparently listen. It was a topic that bore serious consideration, and this was not the time.

  Moving with a steady, deliberate pace, he shifted his track, stepping from the shadows that he’d haunted into the center of the pass. His feet splashed through the icy water that wound through the depressions of the road.

  Risens tracked the movement of the soldiers as he walked down the road. The wagon had been turned so that the rear faced the treacherous edge of the roadway opposite the sheltered rest. A pair of soldiers worked begrudgingly, though with little regard, to load the corpses into the back of the wagon. Two teams of four others used ropes to drag and push the dead horses closer to the precipice. Two leaned against the ropes, their legs churning on the slick surface as they dragged the dead beast while the others pushed from the opposite side. His target, likely the commanding officer of this troop, stood with one other, slightly apart from the group, though close enough that the orders he barked into the night were still understood.

  That they maintained no guard was telling. They clearly worked to cover the evidence of their crimes with no fear of discovery or threat. They were well within the boundary of their perceived protection, high in the mountains between their homeland and what they thought were two encampments of their fellow soldiers. Though not the reason that they were condemned, their complacency would see their demise.

  Risens wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been able to walk directly up to the commander and punch the talon through his chest before his presence was noted.

  Perhaps if not for the action around them, he would have done just that.

  He tracked the glint of a blade as it rotated through the air. The sudden snapping of a rope preceded the panicked cries of alarm. A pair of Shial warriors, straining at the ropes to drag the horse toward the ledge, suddenly had no tension to counter their effort. Propelled by their own force, their stumbling footsteps carried them over the edge of the ravine. The high-pitched scream cutting through the wind materialized with brutal force as an arrow punched through the neck of the first to respond to their frantic companions. One of the soldiers moving the bodies to the wagon stumbled as he walked. With a choking cough, blood splattered from his mouth as he dropped his cargo, joining the civilian in death. The element of surprise was ruined by the deadly precision strikes assassins poured from the cover of the stones around them.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  It was only then that the commander and his officer noted his measured approach. He appeared like a wraith moving silently out of the misty darkness. There were no orders to issue, only a guttural cry of rage as the reality of the moment dawned on him. Both ripped the swords from their sheaths, charging him in tandem. The glowing symbols flashed to life in the bottom corners of his vision as the talons flew into his hands. Tempered by his earlier command, the glee of the battle proved too much for their restraint as they fed off the death that surged around them.

  Risens easily sidestepped the first of his attackers, kicking the man in the side of his knee as he passed. He respected the man for fighting alongside his troop. Many he’d witnessed throughout the years were all too happy to command from the rear. Some still never stayed to witness the battles, instead enjoying the plush comforts of their private tent, while others bled and died in their names. The man’s redeeming qualities ended there; the sentiment soured beyond the one quality. With a satisfying snap, the ligaments holding the joint together severed. The now limp appendage flopped into his other leg, sending him sprawling to the rough stone of the track. The other soldier’s effort proved just as futile, though he was at least spared a measure of pain.

  Darting inside his slash, Risens plunged his talon up and into the man’s chest, lifting him off the ground with the force of his attack. The second blade followed a breath behind, silencing the agonized wail that was about to pour from the man’s open mouth. The symbols in both corners of his eyes flashed as the count increased by a single digit.

  Letting the man slide from his blades, he wheeled on the commander. Squirming on the ground, pained, frantic curses streamed from his mouth as his ruined leg failed to bear any weight. Risens stopped as the man’s errant, desperate slash at his legs sparked as it hit the ground. He was prepared for the rebound, hammering the heel of his boot into the warrior’shand, crunching the bones as he pinned it to the ground. Free from his grasp, the sword skittered into the darkness. Feeling no need to prolong the fight, he ended the struggle with a quick thrust through his heart.

  The rampaging call for violence that radiated from the blades ebbed as he pulled the blade from the commander’s still corpse. His hand locked their grips, his teeth gritted together as the pain burned along both sides of his face. Just beside where the Shadows Shroud met his ear, he felt the stinging as if red-hot blades had been dragged in slow, deliberate motions along his skin. The pain was intense, yet it was a sensation he understood. He’d felt it once before as the use of his mimicry had been rewarded.

  As the pain subsided, the insatiable tendencies reasserted themselves; this time, a distinct tone cut through the screaming emotion.

  “About time, fledgling. Your incompetence will silence us no more.’

  The voices were alarming. He heard the sounds clearly, and yet he understood that they were not external, instead resonating inside his mind. Unlike the thunderous voice that had brought him to his knees, it had the effect of two simultaneous speakers whispering the same message in each of his ears in unison. The overwhelming, ominous presence that demanded his attention was lacking; in its place was a sinuous desire, a need for bloodshed, death, and pain.

  “Our cravings have not been met. Feed us.”

  The anger boiled inside him like a kettle of water over a fire. As shocking as the uttering in his mind was, he would not be swayed or fearful of the weapons. Wiping them quickly on the clean lining of the warrior’s jacket, he slammed them back into their sheaths.

  “You pathetic fledg—”

  The petulant voices ceased as his fingers released their grasp on the handles.

  Risens wasted no time on the introspection or the curiosities of the sudden disrespectful tones that assaulted his mind. The battle around him had ended as quickly as it was joined. Feylen was the only one whose target still clung desperately to life. With a vicious kick, the man went to the side, and the man slammed into the side of the wooden wagon. With a quick lunge, she punched her sword through his chest, spinning as she withdrew it. The splatter of blood mixed with the falling rain as she completed her rotation, removing the man’s head at its conclusion.

  With his foot on the soldier, Bakka wrenched his arrow from the body. Destra stood between the still forms of a pair of soldiers, his hands on his hips, a look of apathy etched into his face. Orio and Korpis still toyed with their prey. Though the soldier was dead, they took turns continuing the attack. The utter savageness of their wanton destruction churned his stomach. He’d seen it before, and it was revolting.

  “Enough,” he bellowed the command through the rain. Orio and Korpis each applied a few more savage blows before reluctantly putting an end to their massacre. The wild glee of the killing still burned in their eyes.

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  Risens was thankful, though not surprised, that none had been harmed in the brief fray. A quarter of their number had been neutralized before the soldiers understood the threat that was upon them. He was at peace with their killing. The actions that had warranted their deaths in his mind had inadvertently provided the means for hiding the act.

  In the continual rain, the blood would wash from the stone, leaving nothing but the natural rock behind.

  It would likely be days before any traces of their bodies would be found. By that time, they’d either be on their way back to Halthome

  Or dead.