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Chapter 51: DOWNPOUR
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 20:10:09 +0000 UTCAUTHOR'S NOTE - You are reading this chapter prior to the final draft for public release. This will be updated with the final version once i
AUTHOR'S NOTE - You are reading this chapter prior to the final draft for public release. This will be updated with the final version once it is complete. As always, we'd love to hear any feedback you might have! Thank you again for continuing this journey!
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Black clouds and rain echoes the foreboding sentiment as they hasten 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 spores though each slick step threatened doom as a fall over the edge from here would be lethal. The sudden drenching weather gave credence to the disastrous plummet of the pair of sentries. Feylen and Orio had tied their bodies together, as was common for movement along the cliff when the weather turned inclement. The safety precaution, was often times far more costly as instead of losing one to an unfortunate turn of foot, both could perish. Lashed together the pair had slipped silently over the precipice, having joined their companions in death.
If the track of the patrol only covered one of the concealed posts, how long would it take for any to notice they were absent? The only thing he was certain of was that no one from their ill-fated camp would come looking for them.
The prospects of what had caused the in ordinant amount of carnage troubled his thoughts. There was no question that the hands of men were not directly responsible for the brutal killings. Whether they controlled the beast of mechanism that caused the destruction was unclear. He searched through the expansive catalog of information in his mind, finding no clear answer to point to.
It was that uncertainty that caused him the most distress.
His senses that 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. In a silent and determined line they plodded on through the night. The questions of the unknown and cover of the weather fueling their at times reckless speed.
In the waning hours of the darkness their pace had slowed to a crawl as the second encampment had come into view. Whatever had harried the first outpost had neither harassed them as they traveled the darkness, nor fallen on encampment. It was very much alive, teaming with nearly thirty soldiers, all dressed in the silver and forest green colors of Warlord Trufang.
As much as the talons begged for an assault on the outpost, he denied the the pleasure. They were talented assassins, their continued survival assured him that they were neither fools nor foolish with their judgements.
The reckless get lucky.
Fate always catches up.
When it does it’s messy an routinely fatal.
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 a precarious thing. As all knew too well, battles rarely went as planned, and while they were well suited to adapt, they were on foreign soil and 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 and then 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 any semblance of watch over the waterlogged path.
The second was unfortunately far more diligent. As he slithered on his belly over the slick stones he cursed the decision to leave the man alive. Even with the mans dutiful approach to his guard, any of their silent blades would have easily ended his watch. Risens watched the others as they made the frigid trek from the meager protection under the leaning edge of a small outcropping of stones.
He’d expected to meet resistance along the path though the volume of soldiers was impressive as was the insinuation. Warlord Trufang was well-informed. The treacherous path had never been used extensively for trade and as such was deemed a poor use of resources by the Kingdom of Halthome. It was neither patrolled by the kingdom nor blocked at the Halthomen end. A garrison, mounting a significant force was nestled near the shadows of the Shial Sliver range, though it was several miles ease of where they had exited the windStep. Any seeking to risk their lives among the twists and turns of the pass were free to do so at their own leisure.
Trufang had seized on the opportunity, understanding the new importance of the Pass. For goods to travel the length of the Shial range to reach their easily crossable foothills was a distance of several hundred miles. Goods and foodstuff from the fertile plains would long have gone to rot if the travel was required. That he had defied the other Warlord of Shial was curious. He could have used the location of his lands and his blockade for leverage, to exact a higher price from King Lathrenon, yet he had chose hostility instead. He’d fortified Breakker’s Pass with his soldiers without the demanding any price for passage.
To Risens, the implications were clear. He didn’t want their gold. He wold feed on their suffering. He was content to watch them starve, to foment the continued discourse that rippled through Kingdom like dropping a boulder into the still waters of a well. For this he would pay. Risens and his assassins were the hands of justice.
The timing of the gambit was curious. It seemed that the pieces of a vast puzzle, one with drastic and wide ranging implications were falling into place faster than the King could prevent them.
Faster than his Rightmaker could silence them.
Something, however had gone astray. The wreckage of the first outpost was testament to this deadly fact. Did Shial suffer 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 true plausibility.
“We should kill them all,” Feylen grumbled as she joined the others under the partial cover of the ledge. “I didn’t know the King’s Rightmaker was afraid of a fight.”
She let the insult hang in the air. Risens was comfortable letting it get washed away by the rain. He purposefully positioned himself in the deepest shadows along the side of the rock. His expressionless face was hidden in the darkness while the low light of the soggy night brought theirs to light. Korpis retained his perpetual scowl, while Bakka’s face retained its impassive expression. Destra subtly shook his head while Orio’s eyes registered with a flash of unexpected excitement, as if he longed for the fight he assumed was to follow.
“Do not forget your place, assassin,” he growled in return, his had sliding down until it rested on the hilt of the talon. His whispered voice dripped with malice. “I am the King’s Rightmaker. I receive my orders from His Majesty and no one else. You will obey and you will not question. There will be time for bloodshed soon enough.”
For a moment, she 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. At her side, the reflection of the night’s gloom flashed of the sliver of Destra’s blade that cleared his sheath. With a blink, the burning of rebellion faded from her eyes.
“By His Majesties orders,” she grumbled with a slight nod. She shifted slightly moving back a fraction of a step. In the world of the assassin, even the smallest measure could mean the difference between a scratch along the neck of a throat that was slit in two.
As surprised as he was, Risens didn’t fault her for the outburst. They were all assassins, after all. Telling them not to kill was like telling the raven’s not to sing.
“At the 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 live you led. Am I understood? The King makes no requests. Nor do I.”
Each of the assassins nodded 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 behind them they continued following the winding path as it snaked through the mountains. Leaving the the outpost behind them, the perpetual incline of the pass leveled for a spell before reversing as they passed the peak. The view from the pinnacle of the mountains was said to be an impressive thing. In the middle of the night, during a rainstorm, avoiding patrols while on the run from whatever had decimated 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 though give the present circumstances if whatever destroyed the other post was still out there, it would only provide another obstacle between them. He stalked at the head of their silent, staggered procession as it slowly descended the winding pass.
Risens was tired having been deprived 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 of skyline to the east should have been a sign to celebrate, however it only caused him more stress. He was in desperate need of rest. Only a few hours would rejuvenate him, though in the company of killer, he didn’t trust closing his eyes.
The descent into Shial brought its own pitfalls as the winding 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 depth of the darkness. Fueled by the storm that had poured on them throughout the night, the rumbled of its swelling rapids droned out any sounds of their approach. They hugged the far side of the pass as a fall from here would undoubtably be fatal.
At the head of their party, Bakka who was leading the group stopped abruptly, holding his hand up over his head in a silent command for pause. That his other hand withdrew his blade was telling. He withdrew the signal quickly waving them forward with an unexpected sense of 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 took turns peeking his head around the edge of the rock at the corner of the switchback. Fifty meters down the track, another of the frequent, small openings was cut into the side of the track, a lone, small covered wagon was the only vehicle, though several shadowed figures moved around the cart. The snarl pulled up on the corner of his lips as he watched the man, dressed in the colors of Warlord Trufang’s house, plunge his sword through the heart of a kneeling man, his hands in the air, begging for mercy. The steel glistened in the halos of the mageLights hanging off the sides of the wagon that the soldiers worked to turn 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 that raged 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 decipher the true cost. These were not warriors, but a family. The soldiers had even butchered the pair of horses that pulled the light wagon. His hands squeezed around the handles of the talons. For once, his urge for violence silenced the normally insatiable blades.
It was Feylen’s eyes who he met as his vison scanned over his companions before.settling back over the soldier who now wiped hip clean on the dead man’s back.
“Can we kill them?”
“Yes. You can have the rest. That one is mine.”
