Risens darted backward. He fell into a defensive stance, letting the warlord crumple to the floor. Expecting to dodge a blade, he was only forced to avoid the splatter of blood. Trufang’s wet, raspy breaths went quiet as Orio stalked in from the shadows of the hall. Casually, he reached down and pulled the blade from the man’s neck, then wiped it on his clothing.

  Confusion addled Risens’ mind for but a moment before it shifted to blinding rage.

  “You bastard!” he growled as he lunged at the assassin. Ravens Talons still in hand, he twisted them to free his fingers enough to grab Orio by his collar. “What have you done?”

  “What we were tasked to—”

  His answer was cut short as Risens spun and threw the man across the room. Orio slammed helplessly into the table, flipping it and half the chairs that surrounded it as he flopped to the ground. The splintering of wood and the shattering of glass pitchers echoed through the otherwise silent estate.

  Risens pounced on the assassin the moment his hind hit the wooden floor with a resounding thud. Driving his knee into the pressure point in the center of Orio’s chest, Risens pinned the man to the floor, holding the Talon ominously close to the man’s neck.

  It roared for blood. His mind was a seething mix of burning animosity, intrigue, and muddying bloodlust, all held together by the glue of duty. He desired nothing more than to give in to the rage, the insatiable thirst, to drive the blade so deep through Orio that it cracked into the wooden floorboards, yet it was duty that won out.

  “You are bound to me as I am to you,” Risens said, low and menacing. “For the duration of this task, by oath, we serve at the pleasure of the King to whom we owe our devotion. Once we return to Halthome, I will give my report to His Majesty. I promise you that if I ever see your face again, neither the broad daylight nor crowds of soldiers watching, nothing will prevent me from removing your head from your shoulders.”

  “Relax, Rightmaker,” Orio growled back with a surprising amount of bravado for one held in such a compromising position. “The task is complete. The warlord is dead. I was protecting you as I was upholding the duty you profess. He had a knife.”

  Risens silenced his pathetic excuses and justifications, driving his knee deeper into the man’s chest and robbing the breath from his lungs.

  “I neither wanted nor needed your assistance,” he snapped. “He was no threat to me, and now the information the Kingdom desired is lost to his lips.”

  Leaning with the entire weight of his body, he pushed himself up off the assassin, satisfied with the grunt of pain that exited the man’s mouth.

  “Filthy coward!” The Talon screamed at his inadequacy, raging that it was again denied the blood it so craved.

  “Do you think me blind to your malice?” Risens asked, shoving his blades away and silencing them.

  Orio glared at him but remained quiet.

  “I heard you and Feylen,” Risens said. “In the cave, while you believe I slept. I know you have no love for me.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Get up,” Risens growled. “Gather the others. Our task here is done.”

  Staggering to his feet, Orio favored him with a mutinous look.

  Risens’ hands hovered ominously close to his blades for a few breaths.

  A spark of recognition flashed in the other assassin’s eyes as he comprehended the precarious nature of the situation. Holding his hands out in front of him in a placating manner, he backed slowly toward the exit.

  “By your command,” he groaned, and he slipped from the room.

  Risens cursed himself for the obligations of duty. His anger at the twist in the situation and the ruination of his plans to ply the warlord of information to bring back to the King only swelled as he stepped back, avoiding the ever-widening pool of blood.

  Skirting the crimson swelling across the floor, he moved to the desk where Trufang had worked. The missive he’d etched into the parchment was benign, though the timing of the subject did little to satiate his aggravated thoughts.

  Honorable King Lathrenon,

  Your wisdom and generosity are a welcome sentiment to the lasting peace between our realms. Your emissaries, Lord’s Caervis and Theroulde, were well-received and honored guests of my humble province only one month ago at your behest. I assure you that my initial vote of “nay” to offering support has been amended to the affirmative. You are no stranger to internal politics, and I assure you that my vote was issued purely on the grounds that our harvest would not be ready in time to meet the decree of the other provinces, not to forsake assistance entirely. As trusted allies, we willingly rise to your people’s aid in your times of need, as we trust you will do the same for the people of Shial if necessity dictates.

  Risens scanned the note for the second time, cursing softly as he committed it to memory even as he folded and placed it into the breast pocket of his cloak. This was not a message planted for the sake of a ruse, but a genuine sentiment, scrawled onto parchment before his eyes. That the King’s emissaries had been present recently was news to him. That they had reached an agreement added yet another layer to the riddled mess that he’d found himself in. The duplicity of both Lords Caervis and Theroulde was widely rumored, yet he was aware of no rumor that connected them with the growing influence of the Dreamcatchers. They had obviously come at the King’s behest and blessing. Why then would His Majesty have wanted the warlord dead?

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  His time to hunt for answers before his presence became known was limited. Turning his attention to the desk, he quickly searched through the drawers, finding nothing but innocuous notes and missives. Various trivial grievances from citizens were mixed with requisitions filled and taxes collected. He bypassed the locked drawer with ease, finding nothing of note beyond the parchments bearing the seal he knew all too well.

  Stamped and signed by King Lathrenon’s own hand was the entreaty conveying the grains from Shial to Halthome and the compensation for the goods provided. A pair of letters conveying introductions and negotiating authority to Lord’s Caervis and Theroulde were dated only a month past. They would likely have arrived home only days before his advent at Duke Karieas’s estate. Risens collected them all, storing them with the other documents on his person.

  Scouring the surface of the desk, he quickly located the hidden compartment tucked into the side of the frame.

  Beyond love letters written by someone named only as “X,” there was nothing of value in the cache.

  There were neither coded documents nor anything bearing the Dreamcatchers’ name. No state secrets lay tucked away within the compartment. He quickly abandoned the search as he found nothing amounting to anything close to a threat to Halthome among the papers in Trufang’s study. Perhaps the evidence he sought was elsewhere, yet the purpose of his mission had been fulfilled. Warlord Trufang was dead.

  Risens exited the private chamber through the doorway, stalking into the darkened hallway beyond. The utter stillness and silence inside the estate was complete. This was not the result of magic, but the reality that none breathed, no hearts still beat in the chests of any inside its room or halls. Descending the stairs, he stepped around the vile byproduct of the quest he and his temporary companions had been set upon. Bodies, in various states of death, were strewn throughout the halls. Each room he passed contained yet another corpse, yet another life ended by their campaign. Crossing the first floor, he was confronted by the fact that the warlord had not lied.

  There were no soldiers among the deceased. Only servants joined their lord in death.

  Exiting the manor through the side door of the kitchen, he noted the first among the dead that carried a blade, though it remained still lodged in its leather sheath. None moved on the ground as he darted through the shadows along the inside of the wall. Ascending the stairs, he encountered several more corpses, soldiers cut down silently on their patrols. From the top of the wall, he surveyed the scene. From a purely technical standpoint, the assault had been performed to perfection. Trufang and what few soldiers he had lay dead, those on the grounds shrouded by the darkness beyond the glow of the mageLights.

  Risens struggled to quiet the thoughts that churned within.

  There was no threat here. He could have accomplished the task himself with relative ease. Why send a group of six assassins to deal with a paltry supply of soldiers and a farmer warlord who’d already agreed to terms? Amateurs could have completed this quest. Why send six of the best?

  Why send the King’s Rightmaker?

  Lowering himself from the walkway, he rolled as he hit the ground to diffuse the force of his descent. He suspected he could have walked casually through the humble keep’s front gates, though his training was far more thorough than to allow that. Brushing himself off, he crept quickly through the fields until he reached the water’s edge. He felt the mounting trepidation as he approached the shadows of the looming forest. The question that had swirled around the loyalties of his fellow assassins had come to a surging head. That ulterior motives were likely involved, he had little doubt, though it was partially morbid curiosity that allowed it to play out. With their task complete, ending them now would be a simple task.

  How many of them shared the same sentiment?

  Silhouetted as a shadow against the darkness of the night, he would be an easy target for any ranged weapon. The shift from the pale glow of the moon that filtered through the stars to the shadow of the trees was the likeliest of sites for an ambush, as adjusting eyes wouldn’t have the time to correct before the barbs took their price in a flash.

  Not wanting the distraction of the insatiable Talons, he drew his reserve steel blades before rushing forward into the shadows. Risens adjusted his track as he entered the trees, shifting rapidly to the left for the cover of the first trunk. There was no whistling of blade nor thrum of a bow to greet his approach, no grunts of effort spent to cut him down. Only the insects quietly mocked him for his wild entrance.

  Their predetermined meeting location was a small clearing only a few meters inside the cover of the trees. He noted the huddle shapes of the assassins near the center. Putting his fingers to his lips, he whistled the call to signal his approach. The echoed reply confirmed the safety of his return. With his attention still focused and on high alert, he moved into the clearing.

  “That was far too easy.” Destra greeted him as he entered. A few steps from his side, Bakka waited, his bow still inertly slung over his shoulders. They had already abandoned the fraudulent gear of Kyeku for the nondescript greys they had worn crossing the mountains.

  “Where are the others?” Risens demanded. The aggravation in his voice was clear, yet these were not the targets of his ire.

  “Orio relayed your command, though neither he, Korpis, nor Feylen has returned, Bakka replied.

  A fierce and virulent string of curses surged through his mind, though he gave none the life they desired.

  “Wait here,” he ordered before disappearing back into the shadows at the edge of the forest.

  From where they were concealed, he could see most of the terrain around the outside of the warlord’s pitifully defended complex. The houses and farms were all civilian structures, none defended by anything more than a fence to hold their personal livestock. Owing to the hour, Risens was surprised to see no more than a scattering of dull lights peeking out of their interiors.

  Movement, a shifting shadow, drew his attention as it exited one of the long, narrow farms sandwiched between the flimsy picket fence and the stone wall of Warlord Trufang’s estate. He tracked it as it slipped through the rows of crops toward the closest farm. The crouched form was a shape he was familiar with. The figure silently slipped through the ajar barn door built off the side of the small farmhouse.

  Risens made a break for it. Silently vaulting hay bales, careful not to disrupt the pitchfork resting precariously on the pile, he peeked through the gap in the door. The sliver of dim light from the open door to the house illuminated enough to continue the roiling of his stomach. His focus was immediately drawn to the body, curled in a pool of its own blood against the far wall.

  The interior was plain yet functional. The dampers were applied to the small mageLight, leaving only a hint of its original glow. It was enough to illuminate the sick scene within. Korpis, his face locked into an expression of wild glee, plunged his knife repeatedly into the still form of a prone man. The bodies of at least two others lay motionless on the floor to the side.

  Risens forced the bile back into his stomach as the assassin straightened, licking the blood from the edge of his dagger. Removing a small vial from within the folds of his cloak, he dragged his blade in short, deliberate, yet seemingly random lines across his face. Then, after sheathing the dagger, he unstoppered the cork on the bottle before tipping a modicum of its contents onto his finger. The sting of the healing salve seemed to have no effect on him as he reveled in the addition of the new scars. Replacing the vial, his devious eyes scanned the room as if looking for something else to kill.

  The duty. The restraint that had bound Risens’ hands incinerated in that instant.

  If Korpis wanted more death, Risens was all too happy to oblige.