It was hard to determine whether the morning sun had risen by the time they finished the grim task of clearing the scene. Thankfully, the Shial warrior had already accomplished much of the backbreaking work of dragging the horses’ heavy corpses closer to the cliff’s edge. Piling the human remains into the wagon, they secured the rear door, tied the dead mounts to the wagon, and pushed. The cart went over the cliffside. After a momentary pause and a little added muscle, gravity did the rest, and the tumbling wagon disappeared into the darkness of the ravine. The sound of splintering wood and cracked rock was punctuated by a splash as the wagon and its morbid contents were quickly overwhelmed by the roaring of the river.

  None of Risens’ companions had received as much as a scratch from the fight, yet their clothing was stained with blood. Some would wash away in the rain, while the rest would soon be a bitter memory and a trivial detail. By the time the rest area slipped out of sight, all traces of the tumultuous event had become a muddy puddle. The gradually declining terrain meant they had crossed the worst of the pass, the section ahead descending until it reached the plains of Shial.

  The dark clouds that had followed them throughout the night only increased as the sun crested the mountain peaks. Even with a hint of light, the world around them was covered in a treacherous gray haze, limiting visibility to only a few dozen meters, at best. With the need for rest outweighing their desire for speed or stealth, they abandoned the track, cutting into the mountains at the first relative break in the downpour. Thankfully, the jagged intersection of the two mountain ranges provided ample concealment while they rested.

  A narrow cave along the sheer face of one of the peaks, a mere fissure in the wall, thin at first, sloped upward until it widened to nearly a dozen meters wide. Protected from the pervasive elements and hidden from sight, this would be an ideal location to bed down for a spell. Exactly how many miles they had stalked through the mountains was unclear, yet the downslope proved they had crossed the center point. The weather had been the most significant inhibitor to their progress. With the inability to see beyond the next corner, they could have easily run into a patrol before they knew it was upon them. It was decided they would rest here in shifts, departing again sometime after midday, provided the rain and sleet agreed.

  Traveling in the company of assassins was a peculiar experience. There was an unspoken code among the killers that the priority of the mark superseded any petty rivalries or motivations. Killing another assigned to the same task was strictly forbidden, though on occasion, it happened. That their order originated from the King would have carried greater weight. They all served the Kingdom and were sworn to protect the realm at all costs. They had not been tasked to merely eliminate a dissident; there was far more at stake. Killing Warlord Trufang was a critical step in allowing the necessary food to flow into Halthome as well as disrupting a plot that was far more insidious than Risens had first expected.

  He glanced around the cave. He trusted no one. Not fully. A few, he believed, had no intention of slitting his throat the moment his eyes shut, but one could never be sure. As such, he paired Bakka and Destra with the others to guard in shifts. He and Korpis would take the first watch, while Bakka and Feylen would relieve them. Orio and Destra would be the last.

  He was thankful to be a light sleeper. Rest would come in light, perilous spurts.

  There was something about the mission—a peculiarity about the task at hand—that had troubled his mind. Though the assassins were skilled, it seemed as if they had been chosen by closing one’s eyes and blindly stabbing at a list of the names of available killers. Beyond that, there was the road itself. The weather had been miserable from the start, yet even if it had been clear, the journey would have been considerable. Moving grain and foodstuffs over the pass would be a substantial undertaking, and then what? How would it then be distributed to the citizens who were most in need? The largest cities—Windwake in particular—were hundreds of miles from where Breakker’s Pass would deposit the supplies in Halthome. Again, he asked, what then?

  Tamping down his mounting annoyance with the thought, he revived a mantra he’d adopted as a youth, as taught to him by Vagon: An assassin never questions the order, only acts as bidden.

  Something about the adage felt wrong in the present.

  He adjusted his cloak and cowl, readying himself to exit back into the rain. Straightening his belt, his hand brushed against the handle of a Talon.

  He started, his heart leaping within him when a voice spoke loudly in his mind. “Idiot. Your ignorant devotion to that which is false will see you dead.”

  The hissing voice, accompanied by the urge to kill quickly, devolved into a mad cackle. The echoes bounded through his mind even after he pulled his hands away from the blades.

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  What in Pylkev’s heart was that?

  “Korpis, take the southern route,” Risens grumbled, his tone harsher than he anticipated owing to his mounting confusion. “Even if you can scrounge dry tinder and wood, no fires. We rest in shifts of three hours at most. Do not forget, Trufang’s soldiers are not the only thing to hunt in these mountains.”

  Korpis grunted and set off.

  “True enough, Raven Rightmaker, but when will the servants be here with wine?” Destra chimed in as he slipped through the crevice.

  “You should sleep while you’ve got the chance,” Risens said.

  Destra let out a barking laugh. “And chance the wench stabbing me through my loins? I’d rather be tired and fit for a romp than rested and untested, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Suit yourself,” Risens said. “But do not hinder the mission due to a clouded mind.”

  “Good sir, I am a consummate professional.”

  Risens turned. Judging by the rising smudge of brightening sky through the clouds and rain, the rocky face of the mountain where they sought shelter faced in a southerly direction. It was nearly midday, yet the foothills and plains below were shrouded in a churning mass of muted grays. For a hundred meters or so, the base of the cliff was a maze of rocks, tossed or dislodged from the heights above. Without warning, the winding passages through the broken boulders ended in a sheer drop.

  Thankfully, there were plenty of jagged outcroppings above to block most of the rain. Motionless, dressed in the drab, muted colors of their assigned gear, they blended into the mountains, crouching under the protection of the stone. They remained close enough to guard the cave entrance, but ensured the avenues one could use for an approach were within sight.

  Time dragged on as Risens watched the rain-soaked terrain in silence. Though he maintained silence, that didn’t stop Destra from prattling on. He was, indeed, a rare find—an assassin with a loose tongue.

  The steady rush of rain-made waterfalls pouring off the cliff face was accentuated every so often by the sharp cracking of falling rocks. Beyond scouring for movement along the paths, Risens’ eyes were routinely trained skyward. They still had no clear indication of what had ravaged the outpost.

  Whatever it was had left no spores of its movement, yet the damage had been devastating. They had heard the terrified wails on the wind, confusing it for the sounds of the storm. The patrol had hastened back at the commotion, but it was the blades of his assassins that had cut them down. Even as close as they had been to the massacre, they had continued without incident beyond those of their own making.

  They would have been easy prey for something with the strength to destroy an entire outpost without leaving a trace.

  Was it following them?

  Had the second outpost already fallen?

  Unless whatever it was had ulterior plans, the questions would likely have to wait until their return trip.

  ***

  The rain lessened significantly as the morning wore on. The steady stream of water crashing on the stones around them had deteriorated into the distinguishable patter of individual droplets. Though it had yet to make its presence known in full, the sun struggled to peek out from behind the thinning rain clouds. His vision had increased steadily as the rain thinned, yet he still couldn’t make out any of Breakker’s Pass that cut through the mountains.

  Quiet footsteps on the rocks shifted his sweeping focus back toward the entrance to their temporary lodging. Bakka crept carefully on the stones, nodding as he approached. Risens noted the care the man took to keep his hands well away from the blades strapped to his hips.

  “Quiet morning?” he whispered, ducking under the low shelf of stone that had kept Risens relatively dry throughout the night. He stopped with purpose, and Risens knew he remained just outside of the zone where Korpis or he could reach with their weapons. “I know I’m early, but there is nothing I despise more than sleeping in a room full of murderers.”

  Destra laughed. “Truly, I have no doubts that if any among us wanted another dead, they could make it so regardless of one’s sleep state.”

  “Be that as it may, Bakka said, “we take enough risks in this life of ours as it is. Plus, Orio’s snoring could wake the dead. I’m surprised no one’s put a knife through his throat by now.”

  Risens observed the man as he whispered. There was a calm quietness about his personality that was disproportionate to the deadly life he led.

  Destra started off. “Well, I need to drain the sea serpent.”

  When he was gone, Bakka shook his head and spoke again. “It sounds bizarre saying it, yet there is a loyal man behind the bravado.”

  “That so?” Risens asked absently, his watchful eye never leaving the trail.

  “He’s exceptionally deadly. Many have underestimated him based purely on his character. Feylen, as she calls herself now, is known to me as well. It’s the sword that gives her away. She, too, is more than capable.”

  “You’re well-informed,” Risens noted. The hint of a smile that tugged up on his lips was honest, though he stifled it before it could blossom further.

  “What was that?” Bakka asked.

  Risens turned for the first time. “What?”

  “That smirk.”

  The light pull crept onto his face again. “Nothing. I’ve just never known our trade to be such a social club.”

  “With all due respect, not all of us enjoy the solitude as much as you. It’s typical for us to work in teams, depending on the task at hand, that is.”

  “I have never been afforded such luxuries.”

  “Such is the weight borne by the King’s Rightmaker. Trained from birth, you were.”

  Anger rose within Risens, but he quickly dismissed it. There was no way for the man to know he was a bastard. No way to know he’d never chosen this life.

  “Halthome isn’t overly large for those of us who are disposable,” Bakka continued. “Guess we’re just the lucky ones to survive.”

  His gaze lingered for a moment before sweeping across the slowly resolving vista that spread out before them.

  “The other two are unknown to me, though they have a familiarity that isn’t developed overnight,” he whispered. “Curious, don’t you think?”

  Curious wasn’t the first word to spring to mind as the alarm bells of warning sounded throughout Risens’ mind.