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Chapter 49: DEADLY COMPANY
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 20:00:59 +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
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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Risens listened as the assassins named themselves by the firelight. Bakka, the first to identify himself, or at least to offer the name by which he was to be called was the shortest of the group. At nearly a head shorter than himself, he had a compact build an a discrete air of competence. Curly blond hair framed his face, one that bore the remnants of several thin scars. Unlike the others, he carried a bow slung over his shoulder, a holster brimming with arrows strapped to his hip.
To Bakka’s side, the only woman among the group scowled at him across the fire. She was tall, towering over the shorter assassin, though roughly the same height as he and the others. Among the group, she was the only one that carried a sword strapped to her hip. If her presence among the group wasn’t proof enough, her confident stance assured him of her prowess. It wasn’t one of arrogance, yet it demanded respect in a manner that no fabrication could achieve.
“My given name is none of your concern,” she grumbled. “Call me, girl, woman, vixen or any other derogatory term and I’ll cut your tongue out. Feylen, will suffice.
Risens grinned at the brutal honesty and genuine threat that poured from her mouth. She was a limited quantity among a profession dominated by men. Gender, as he knew was no indicator of how proficient or lethal an assassin could be. The few he’d known throughout the years had outlived many of their male counterparts. The flames reflecting. He acknowledged her with a nod.
The sudden cackle of laughter broke through the silence that followed her threat. As if the hilarity could only be contained for so long until it exploded out, one of the assassins at the end of the group double over at the waist.
“Well met, Feylen. I’m sure His Majesty would be thrilled to hear that his assassins murdered themselves before even reaching the pass. Fear not, I’ll pick on the wee one at your side,” he chuckled at his dangerous humor, though he held out his hands in a placating manner. “Destra is my name, so feel free to use it at will.”
He finished his statement with exaggerated bow. The man carried himself with a swagger that was peculiar. His jovial face seemed more apt be a bard or a some pompous noble than a killer.
“You’re an idiot.”
This time it was the assassin at his side who grumbled. The best way Risens could describe the man was average. Everything about him from his height to his demeanor, he seemed to be built to remain unnoticed. Even the tone of his voice was dull and uninteresting. Destra held his hands to his chest feigning injury.
“You wound me, Orio,” he retorted. “After all the time we spent skulking in the shadows, the blows came right out in the open. Oh, and Risens, I’ll save you the headache of trying to get a word from the last brute. Korpis rarely speaks and when he does, its entirely nonsense.’
The last in the group glowered at Destra, though the man swatted away the daggers in his look with casual disregard. While Orio appeared to be built to blend in with his surroundings, Korpis’s appearance was terrifying, his face was crisscrossed with a web of scars while his deep set eyes and high cheekbones gave him a ghoulish look. So numerous were the slashes that marred his face he questioned if many were if fact, self-inflicted.
That he accompanied the party was a testament to his skill. They were all the King’s assassins after all. Their loyalty to crown and kingdom were not in question. He was in uncertain and deadly company.
There was little appetite for banter after the brief introductions and a quick meal. Their food consumed and the fire burned down low as the depth of the night set in. Clouds blotted out the view of the moon and stars ahead, leaving the mountains bathed in a pale blue light with deep shadows from the rocks leaving wide swaths of utter darkness. Against the backdrop of stone, the drab outfits provided the assassins a measure of camouflage blending into the natural background.
“We move until first light,” Risens ordered as the snuffed out they final embers of the fire light. “Single file through the pass. We’ve seen no one yet, though I doubt the Warlord is content to merely block the entrance on the Shial side. Halthome only mounts scattered patrols. Expect a fight along the way.”
“One can only hope,” Destra grinned.
While Risens hadn’t had the pleasure of working in the presence of others for much of his infamous career, it was clear that many of others had. That several knew each other with some relative degree of familiarity was peculiar to him. What tasks had the crown assigned to them where they had had the opportunity to work with frequency. He knew none of them by either face or name, a fact that was entirely expected. It was likely ny design. He was certain that with the completion of this task, they would again disappear into the shadows.
Halthome covered a wide landmass, stretching hundreds of miles from the Cimmerian range to their west to the lifeless Drylands, the vast desert far to the east. They likely served the crown, yet hunted in and haunted different locales.
They were less than an hour into the trek up Breakker’s Pass when the moon cut through the clouds, splashing its light across the mountains. Without having to issue a command the assassins shifted to the side of disappearing into the heavy shadows. It added extra steps to their journey but the habit was ingrained into the very fiber of their beings.
Cautions fueled his increased scanning of their surroundings. Their silhouettes would stand out against their surroundings making their movements far easier for any trained lookout to spot well before they would ever notice their presence.
To their left, the wall of the canyon sloped for a few meters before if dropped down the sheer face of the mountain. They had gained elevation inclined steadily as they walked. Nearly five hundred meters below in a wide clearing at corner of the ranges, the flickering lights from the torches that illuminated Adalhard’s plaza looked like tiny candles. In the center of the plaza bathed in the cool blue light of the mon, the darkened form of the shrine stood out like a black smudged against the light blue stone of the surrounding patio.
A strange longing filled his senses as he viewed the scene. Fendri had warned them not to tarry at the shrine. At the moment, it was exactly what he wanted to do. Was it on that hallowed ground where the ancient King was first branded in the image of the Raven?
As much as he wanted to believe, there was something about the convenience of the locale that was off. Having witnessed firsthand the power of the forbidden brands, he was more inclined to believe the tales of Adalhard’s heroism, yet he felt no attraction beyond mere curiosity to the site.
They stopped for a break somewhere in the inky depth of the night, though there was no fire to be had. The chill that greeted them as they stepped from the windSteps had frozen into an icy permanence. Through the collars pulled up over their noses, blasts of steam puffed out with every breath, whisking away with the breeze.
They were hours and miles into the mountains, separated from the kingdom of Halthome by the rigid, snow covered peaks of the mountains. They’d left the partial cover and protection of the trees now facing the biting chill as it ripped through the bare rocks. Risens had worked in higher elevations as a part of his expansive training. He remembered distinctly the feeling of the lack of oxygen in the air, like breathing through a small reed when your lungs craved a full breath. He noted the slowed movements and the strain exerted on the others, yet breathing through the Shadows Shroud felt as natural as ever.
The mask was bestowed on him as the mark of his true form. He’d seen the majestic ravens circling on the winds, nothing but specs on the blue firmament. If they thrived there, so too could he.
Seeing the signs of struggle grow in his companions, he called another stop to their progress not long after the last. The indents along the path, smaller than the one at the base, had been more frequent as they ascended higher. The trickle of water gurgling down the rocks drew his attention.
The liquid was frigid, crisp clear and rejuvenating. They all drunk deep, maintaining their hydration as they allowed their bodies time to acclimate to the change in elevation. Having never traversed the path, he had no clear understanding of when they would reach the peak, just west of the center of the twisting trail. From the descriptions, the road undulated up and down, though more of the former until the pinnacle. From there it followed the reverse track as is winded downward into the plains of Shial.
Treacherous pitfalls lined the road at nearly every corner. Their eyes, trained to the darkness over years of experience, were attuned far better than the average citizen or soldier still dangers in the dark were exponentially heightened. They sat in silence, the others conserving their breath while the waited. Of all the others, it was Bakka, who seemed to fair the best with the change.
The assassin slid closer to where he sat. Discretely, Risens shifted his hand closer to his blade, his fingers brushing against the feathered hilt. The irrational screams for violence begged for him to draw the weapon, to fall upon the others, cut them down for their weakness.
“The others are not as attuned to the altitude as am I or you it seems,” he whispered. “Perhaps you’d grant me leave to scout ahead.”
The sudden sound of a stone skipping against stone somewhere along the trail forced him to silence the assassin with a gesture. His sudden motion brought the others to silent attention. To a man, and woman each had their hands on their blades.
Risens motioned silently for the others to stay while he signaled to Bakka follow him.as they scouted ahead. Stepping from one large stone to the next, they crept through the thick shadows of the rocky peaks toward the winding roadway ahead.
Stopping just before the track, he called their movements to a halt, straining his ears against the moaning of the wind and the quiet bubbling of the stream behind them. It wasn’t long before another pebble, this time barely big enough to noticeable skipped down the path a few meters before him. Voices hushed, but animated filtered through the wind.
“This is a fools errand,” the speaker hissed. “We’ll either freeze or plummet to our deaths before we find anything. We’ve been at this for weeks, spending hours almost every night marching damn near a quarter of the pass in the dead of night. No one is stupid enough to be climbing around here in the dark. His Grace is fooling himself to think that this will amount to anything other than a rise in cases of frostbite.”
The dull thump of a fist against meaty flesh echoed through the night.
“If you weren’t family, I’d throw you off this damn ledge myself,” the second voice growled. “The more complaining you do, the longer this patrol takes and the longer it is before we can warm up by the fire. Shut up and deal with it.”
Risens and Bakka flattened themselves against the side of the rock as the pair of soldiers crept past their location. The dividing sentiment among the patrol was telling, through the wording was curious. Said in jest, the title was one he’d heard applied not to Warlords, but to Kings. That they had come from further up the trail was as much of a relief as it was a concern. He was glad they hadn’t wandered by the sentries without noticing the position of their camp. It stood to reason that if there was one post hidden among the peaks that there would would likely be more than one encampment ahead.
The thrill of excitement warmed him, though he knew they would need to be careful. If any were to escape, if there presence was noted, the Warlord would only fortify his location making their task problematic.
Returning to the King with a task incomplete was not something he’d done in the past. His life was proof of the validity of his claim.
He had no intention of starting now.
Silently, they watched the pair of soldier, complaints now muted as the leaned against the wind trudge up the track a few meters before their. Their previous attempts at stealth had devolved into heavy footsteps that send loose stone careening down the pathway behind them.
“Bakka, collect the others,” he whispered. “It’s time we move.”
