Warlord Trufang’s stronghold was a three-story, wooden affair, constructed on a hefty stone foundation. The gently sloping rise increased a little less than ten meters in elevation, but it still towered over the surrounding village. Judging by the stumps dotting the edge of the forest and the overabundance of loose stone nearby, its rustic, dark, hand-hewn wood had likely been sourced from what had, at one point, covered much of its footprint.

  In the shadow of the trees, they had all changed their gear, donning the required G’Moka uniform. Though the fabric was generic, each contained gold and black, the telltale markings of Warlord Kyeku, Trufang’s closest neighbor. Even under the cover of darkness, Risens tracked the progress of the assassins as they crossed the open space between the forest and the wooden fence. One after another, their silhouetted forms appeared as they vaulted over the low pickets. Risens moved separately from the group, following the shoreline to the edge of the hill. From there, he would follow the water, climbing up the wall and entering from the rear of the complex.

  Their mission was one and the same, though their targets had now diverged. They would all clear the stone wall at once, intent on causing as much silent mayhem as possible.

  Feylen and Bakka were charged with securing the walkway that stretched along the top of the wall. Orio and Korpis, his silent partner, would follow in their wake, eliminating any on duty at the gate. Destra would see to those who patrolled the grounds. From the hill, they had counted fewer than twenty soldiers guarding the place. Aside from the main structure, there was only one outbuilding inside the complex, and judging by its occupants, it was merely the warlord’s personal stable. Any number could lie in wait inside the palatial building, though something about it didn’t feel right.

  The heavy wooden gate blocking their path held the most significant volume of troops he had seen. Nearly double the number held that position, the barracks stretching out nearby likely housing another hundred, at most. This village didn’t seem like one on the verge of war. They were prepared for whatever may descend from the rigors of the pass, though oblivious to anything more.

  The sleepy lake lapped quietly against the bank. Risens climbed the gentle rise to the edge of the wall where it met the sheer face of the cliff. Looking into the placid waters of the lake below, a fall from this height would do little more than temporarily bruise one’s ego.

  Where the stone wall and cliff joined, a narrow metal barrier of sorts had been erected, preventing anyone intent on trespassing from merely stepping around the edge of the wall to the gardens beyond. As his feet settled on the grass, he recognized how laughably pathetic the attempt was. Likely foiling the village drunks and adventurous youths, anyone with a modicum of talent, or any with ill intent, would have no difficulty circumnavigating the blockade. He did so with unsettling ease.

  Padding carefully across the grassy lip, he surveyed the courtyard beyond the bushes. Comfortable benches ringed a small circular pond in the center, while several topiaries shaped like various creatures watched from the perimeter. The first two floors and their respective balconies were dark. Only a light on the third floor flickered softly in the darkness. The lack of soldiers and apparent life was alarming. He had negotiated his way through and around traps much of his remembered life, yet this felt wholly different. To the untrained eye, there was nothing malicious here. It felt as if the manor was purely enjoying a night’s rest, not prepared in any way for the death that lurked in its shadows.

  But Risens’ eye was not untrained.

  The familiar whir of a sentinel buzzed like a swarm of angry insects in the night. A few meters to his right, a lone sentinel struggled to rise. One arm hung limp at its side. The other, bent at an awkward angle, sprouted dual conjoined blades not unlike a gardener’s shears. In totality, it had the appearance of something meant to prune the hedges, not repel an attack from a determined assassin.

  Risen had no time to contemplate the innocuous-looking mechanism. Having faced far too many of them in the last few days with relatively the same degree of deficiency, he wasted no time dealing with this one.

  Whipping the Talons from their sheaths, he darted toward the sentinel, swinging a vicious thrust at where the neck of a human would have been.

  An irrational movement of the machine’s blade threw its body off its axis, forcing Risens’ next stab slightly upward, near where the limply hanging arm met the carriage. Without a sound, the Talon slipped through the seam and into the gears and magic within. With a sputter like a sickened cough, it struggled to maintain its flight, though it made no further attempt to attack.

  Grabbing it with both hands, Risens heaved the sentinel over the low barrier of hedges. The choking and sputtering of the blade that kept it aloft silenced in a muted splash as it reached the water below. The symbols in the corners of his vision flashed lower.

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  “Put us away, fool. These are not flesh. You are not worthy.”

  Over the continued insults and protests of the weapons, he ducked into the shadows, keeping the blades in his hands. The sudden noise of the sentinel had been quiet, yet in the depths of the night, it likely would have been noted.

  It should have been noted.

  As the moments stretched on, nothing but the natural sounds of the night floated around him. No shrill whistle of alarms, no angered cries of warning. Just crickets chirping peacefully in the grass. Risens quieted the blades by sliding them back into their sheaths as another digit faded from the countdown.

  Moving rapidly through the grass, he increased his speed to a sprint as he neared a fluted column. Leaping on his last stride, he planted his foot on the carved wood, surging upward as he swarmed up to the second level of the warlord’s estate. Again, he paused in the balcony’s shadows, waiting for the sounds of panic or alarm. Hearing neither warning nor even any motion, he jumped to the railing before springing to grab hold of the floor above. Peering cautiously over the edge, he assessed the scene before him.

  A small wash of muted mageLight illuminated the upper level of the porch that extended from the rear of the house. Apart from a pair of tables and chairs and a comfortable-looking couch, it was empty—not a soul stirred. The windows that ran along the entire edge of the patio offered a view into the solitary room beyond—no doubt the home for none other than the target he sought.

  Warlord Trufang.

  A mild floral aroma crept out of the room through a pair of iron-framed glass doors, splitting a wall of windows in two equal parts. Seated at a table inside, his back to the patio, a man scratched away at a parchment, paying no mind to his surroundings.

  Risens hoisted himself up, his feet landing silently on the wooden balcony. He redrew one of the Ravens Talons and stalked into the chamber. The rumblings of the blade began again, though with every step closer, the insults quietened in anticipation of the kill.

  The room was spacious and equipped with furniture made of matching rich wood. Several evenly spaced, thick, wooded pillars held the high, patterned ceiling aloft. Vibrantly colored paintings of scenery highlighted the dark wood of the walls. The door to the darkened hallway beyond was open, yet no sound filtered through the gap. Nowhere did he see images of the man’s lineage nor of the warlord’s conquests. Nothing was gilded in gold.

  The absence of the expected mindless opulence was as peculiar as it was refreshing.

  Risens was only a few steps away when the quiet sound of the man scratching away at his paper ceased. He stretched as he rose gingerly from his chair, his eyes going wide as he noticed Risens’ presence.

  In him, there was nothing overtly threatening. Appearance had never mattered to Risens, nor would it start now, but the continued observations added to a confusing mix of discrepancies. Looks were often deceiving, yet the man, athletic as he was, pushing into the latter years of his life, had the build of a farmer, not a fighter. He wore a small knife on his hip—one likely used for dressing game, not carving human flesh.

  Risens grabbed the man roughly by the collar, dragging him across to the nearest pillar. With force, he slammed him, back first, and propped him up with a hand over his mouth and a blade to his throat.

  “Warlord Trufang, I presume,” Risens growled.

  His mission had been to eliminate the man, yet the opportunity, no matter how tainted it was by the desire to survive,could prove invaluable. The truth was generally easy to decipher from the errant lies and fabrications used in a desperate attempt to prolong the life of one sentenced to death.

  Risens had seen images of Sagra Trufang—as he had of all the rulers of the surrounding provinces—so he knew the mark was true. As it was, his focus and learning had been heavily centered on the internal actor whose influence could more easily be a detriment to the Kingdom. Holding the man’s life in his hands, he realized how woefully uneducated he was on Shial, their politics, and the overall threat they posed.

  However, that his King had ordered the warlord’s death was enough. He stood in the way of transporting the precious food vital to keeping the people of Halthome fed.

  The man nodded quickly, his eyes still bulging with fear.

  “Call out for assistance, and I will slit your throat before any will hear your cries, Risens hissed. “I need information.”

  He only needed to wait a moment before the subtle acknowledgment was given with another nod.

  “There are none to respond who would do you any harm, in any event,” Trufang croaked. His voice was surprisingly steady for one held at knifepoint. “There’s nothing but servants, cooks, and maids. They wield mops and pans, not blades.”

  “Where are your soldiers?”

  “As you’ve no doubt noticed, there is only a skeleton crew here,” Trufang explained.

  The man, compromised as he was, worked to keep his hands outstretched and intentionally well away from the blade at his hip.

  “The bulk of my soldiers have been sent to assist the Kyeku—your people,” he explained.

  The G’moka armor had done its job.

  “We received word that the heavy rains flooded the river downstream. I’ve sent them to assist however they can, whether it be rescue or recovery. Why have you come to harass me? Does your master so hate me that even in my kindness he wishes me dead?”

  Risens had interrogated more than he cared to remember over his years of service. He understood how to read people. Understood outright deceit from the truth. He struggled to find the fabrications in the man’s words.

  Sagra’s eyes widened as his perceptive mind reached a conclusion. “You only bear the colors of Kyeku. They are warriors of the plains and have never been known to skulk in the shadows.”

  Risens groaned internally at the astute observation, though it mattered little. The Warlord would tell no one of their conversation beyond their brief and tragic meeting.

  “What are you planning with the Dreamcatchers? Why are your soldiers manning the concealed outpost to block Breakker’s Pass?”

  “Dreamcatchers? Outposts in the mountains? Young man, what are you talking about?” Trufang sputtered. “We are but simple farmers here. We have excess grain—”

  Blood spurted from his mouth, covering his words in a gurgle as the stained end of a blade punched through his throat.