Chapter 47: THE BORDER GAMBIT

“A number of our company are posted throughout the city. Don’t bother to look for them, you will not find them. Unlike you, they’ve already passed this portion of their training.”

Vagon spoke in a deep voice, his southern accent unmistakable.

Risens, at nine years of age, looked up at the man as if he were a giant. “I bet I’d find a couple of them.”

Vagon glared down at him, his dark skin glistening with sweat in the hot light of day. These drills were always done during the daytime. An assassin must never be seen, even when the sun does its damndest to expose them.

“If you could, they would be dead already,” Vagon said. “Now, it will be your job to traverse the city from here to the Exposition without being sighted. If even one of my men reports your actions, it will be ten lashes.”

Risens groaned, though kept the noise mostly to himself.

“If more than one sees you,” Vagon continued, “consider another ten for each man.”

“And if they lie?”

“We do not lie,” Vagon warned. “For the cause, yes. But not to each other, and not to the King.”

***

Risens had called Windwake home for all his life, but it wasn’t the prospect of leaving the realm that churned his gut. Having only recently discovered the Roost and its powers, being forced to leave it behind now, even temporarily, felt akin to a punishment—as if he were being banished to the dungeons to rot for decades.

“There is one name within the document you recovered that has been repeated and it is one I know well: Sagra Trufang.” King Lathrenon spat out the words like sour milk. “That the warlord conspires with the Dreamcatchers against Halthome, I have no doubt. He was the sole voice in Shial opposed to the trade agreement that would allow the flow of much needed grain and spices into Windwake.

“The curse that has fallen over Halthome—the droughts that have robbed the land of its bounty—have disproportionately effected my realm over the others.” The King rose from his chair. Fendri stood aside as His Excellency took the steps before pacing the gap between the massive council tables. “Warlord Trufang reigns over the lands just along the northern border of the Shail Sliver. It is through his land that the Breakker’s Pass runs. I need this route cleared so trade may be established. The warlord must be taught the error of his ways.”

The challenge of the task ignited a spark of excitement in Risens, alleviating the pressing worry over the complications that his mask might present. Windwake was starving; the people needed food. The King risked much with his efforts to establish trade with Shial. Though the land suffered from lack of exports, likely none were displeased that the gambit weakened their neighbor to the south. The assignment risked igniting a war with the nation while the citizens of Halthome starved.

“You will not go on this task alone,” the King continued to Risens’ surprise. “You will lead a party of six. Behind your skills, they are among the finest assassins in the realm. Their allegiance to me is unquestioned.”

The last statement was peculiar, though Risens worked to keep the emotion from registering it his eyes. That the King felt the need to profess their devotion was curious. To his Rightmaker, such things as the royal assassins swearing utmost fealty would be law. To risk outright war at the hands of killers who had not been vetted would be foolish—one thing he knew Lathrenon was not.

“Access to the path must be restored. Leave none alive.” This time, the King’s words were accompanied by the familiar dread that surrounded his person.

Knowing the influence of true power, Lathrenon’s conviction felt tainted, childish and weak. His recent brutality and thirst for blood were telling—he had become desperate.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Risens bowed.

“Yes, yes. The others will be gathered by the time your join them.” The King stopped his pacing, standing like a statue, regal and proud, folding his hands behind his back.

Until a few days ago, the man had commanded an aura that radiated strength and control. Risens had willingly drenched his blades in the blood of the traitors to the realm for the benefit of the Kingdom. Now, the man stood rigid with jaundiced eyes. All Risens saw before him was a self-serving, wicked man, propped up by the power of the Brand that defined him.

“There will be answers when you return, Lathrenon assured. “An attempt on your life is an attempt of mine.”

Risens cringed at the assertion from a man who did little of the bloody work himself. It was he who fought for his life, outnumbered eight to one while the King lounged in his quarters.

“You will leave under the cover of darkness and return to me once the warlord and his ilk have been destroyed. Kill the man; burn the rest to the ground. It goes without saying that none may know that Halthome had any hand in this. The lawless borderlands of Shial will provided the cover you need. Do not fail me, Rightmaker.”

Risens met the King’s gaze, bracing himself as he weathered the intensity. The air around him was filled with a constricting pressure, like the gods themselves wanted him to know that they could crush him where he stood. Over his shoulder, at the corner of the regal throne, Magus Pol’s lips moved subtly as if mouthing words.

“Your gear will be ready for you,” Lathrenon concluded. “Return to me when the Warlord is dead.” He then added, “Fendri, see that his equipped.”

Turning on his heel, the King ascended the steps, depositing himself on the throne that, for the first time to Risens’ eyes, looked fraudulent.

With violent tearing that ripped through his very soul, the cracks that had formed as a hairline at first, now spread into a vast fissure. It was wide enough that he no longer knew if he could cross it safely.

Or if he even wanted to try.

Offering another subtle nod, Risens followed Fendri, this time through a different concealed exit in the council chamber, hidden along the opposite wall. Having spent time in the council chambers on many occasions, he’d identified the disguised doorways, though he’d never been afforded the freedom to explore. As he followed Fendri into the dimly lit adjoining pathway, he realized just how little of the castle complex he had traversed. His hands fell to the handles of his eager blades as his senses tuned to warning.

He knew the pathways he stalked with an intimate familiarity. It would be nearly impossible for any to surprise him there. Following the steward into the unknown, he knew nothing of what lurked around each corner. Keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings, he used the man as an unknowing shield, stepping directly where his feet had noisily fallen.

“The King may have overlooked your mask this time, but your cavalier attitude will see you dead. Do not bear it in his presence again,” Fendri grumbled though he kept his attention forward as he led the way.

That he had offered his assistance through whispered words into the King’s ear was puzzling. Risens had a bleeding hatred for the impertinent man, loathing him likely as much as Fendri despised him. Why had he fabricated the details of the mask to the King when, moments earlier, the abject disgust at its appearance on Risens’ face had been palpable?

“You whispered something to the king,” Risens said, unable to addressing the question that needed to be answered.

Fendri grunted.

“Why?”

“I have already told you that too much has been devoted to your training to risk your demise by stupidity and carelessness.” The acidic tone with which he responded made it clear he had no further inclination to discuss the subject.

So, Risens followed in silence, his attention focused on the potential pitfalls and hazards of the unexplored passages. Making a corner, the wavering black void of a windStep came into view.

Fendri didn’t slow as he stepped into the darkness.

Risens, however, stopped, sighed, and wrapped his hand around his blade in preparation. If a trap was to be sprung, the exit to the portal would be the most logical location. The disorientation from the passing would be brief, but it would take only a moment and a proper stroke for one’s head to be removed from his body. In a crouch, with his weight on the balls of his feet, he stalked into the portal.

Gray and black whizzed by on both sides and then, the stone walls of the chamber beyond came into focus. A few steps ahead, Fendri still marched onward, his determined pace undeterred. The hall was not unlike most of the interior of the castle that Risens was, indeed, familiar with. Carefully shaped and fitted stones formed the walls and arching ceiling overhead. He noted the disguised, square faces of the summoning stones mixed in with the natural rock at both ends of the hall.

Fendri continued, the steward’s weight only making a dull thump as they stomped along the blood red carpet that ran along the center of the hallway. The crimson path ended at the heavy, reinforced wooden door. A pair of rigid sentries, lifeless statues in heavy armor, each holding a shield bearing the crest of the realm and a wicked-looking halberd, guarded either side of the entrance. Their gleaming, flawless mail was purely ceremonial, having never been hardened in the forges of battle. Fendri pushed against the door without hesitation, and the panel swung noiselessly inward.

The room beyond was like nothing Risens had ever seen. Every free meter of the massive chamber was lined with rack upon rack of weapons. He’d never had the opportunity to visit the castle armory, having his personal selection procured and provided to his own personal store. The deadly vault had to have been several hundred meters long, lit by evenly spaced iron chandeliers glowing with soft, blue mageLight.

Swords and daggers were by far the most abundant, taking up most of the wall along the left side of the room. The most prevalent bladed weapon, the standard armament for the King’s army, was the short sword. Tens of thousands of the polished blades hung neatly on racks. He had to assume the titanic crates along the walls were also filled with the same.

Beyond the standard equipment, there was an impressive variety of other swords and daggers, ranging from throwing knives, to the thick curved blades used primarily by those in the southern regions, and thinner ones preferred in the north. Additionally, massive claymores and bastard swords hung in Xs, likely used by only a select few who could summon the strength to wield such a heavy weapon.

As the swords had dominated the left wall, ranged weapons held sway over the right. Arrows and bolts by the thousands were hung carefully off the pegs affixed to the wall, stacked at least half a dozen deep. Bows, both strung and unlimbered, commanded the wall closest the arrows, while adjacent to the bolts were scores of crossbows.

Shining, deadly tops of the various polearms loomed high over the others while axes, hammers, maces, flails and every other conceivable weapon stretched on into the distance.

Risens had known the armory was expansive, but the sheer volume was daunting. Halthome’s military might was impressive, yet this storeroom alone could arm tens of thousands more, regardless of which armament they favored.

“What, no armor?” Risens inquired sarcastically.

A few steps ahead, Fendri finally stopped as if he only just realized he was being followed. He grunted again, though this time, it was unclear whether out of feigned humor or ongoing annoyance.

“The armory spans several room,” he explained. “To the right, the armor. The training chambers and smithy are to the left. I would caution you, if you ever find yourself here again, to avoid that room at all costs. They are displeasureable in the best of times.”

The steward started marching again.

Risens admired the quality of the steel as the racks of blades filed by. As impressive as it was, with every step, he appreciated his personal collection even more. Vagon had trained him in the use of all weapons, but to one accustom to the specific design, feel, and weight of his daggers, he’d be lost among the endless options.

The insatiable Ravens Talons would be his service blades—as their time permitted—though he understood the necessity of always maintaining a second pair as the inevitable cooldown could be deadly in a fight. It seemed that each time the talons drew blood, a measure of the time was restored, but he’d yet to determine the precise duration. With the upcoming task at hand, he knew there would be sufficient opportunities.

“I have procured your typical load-out,” Fendri announced as they veered to the left, passing the last racks of crossed swords. Several doors exited off the long hallway before him. The hint of sulfur and the muted clang of hammer on steel hung in the air. “You’re free to maintain your current attire while you travel, though the black will likely draw more attention. The decision remains yours. Extra layers will be welcomed as the weather throughout the pass can be frigid. When you assault the warlord’s keep, however, the provided uniforms of Shial G’moka, must be worn.”

The G’moka were the elite warriors of Shial’s Kyeku provice—that of Trufang—and Risens knew that this particular arrangement had been made to hide his party’s facial features. The cloth traditionally warned by the G’Moka both covered their faces and hung from their helmets to shield their face and neck from the harsh and bitter winds.

Risen voiced his understanding, acknowledging the King’s plan. Warlord Trufang would fall. Any who witnessed his death would pin it on the neighboring province. Infighting among the United Nations of Shial was welcomed far more than the attention falling on Halthome. With resources stretched thin due to the ongoing drought, rationing them further would guarantee a revolt. A rebellion that Lathrenon could ill afford.

“There is enough dried food to last each of you a week,” Fendri said. “In addition, you will find a bedroll—it’s not comfortable—tent, rope, extra clothing, and repelling gear. I needn’t remind you that Breakker’s Pass and the surrounding mountains are as treacherous as they are steep.”

They passed the entrances to several large training spaces, each with a dirt floor, heavily scarred by errant slashes and chipped and gouged by heavy blows. A haggard selection of straw dummies sighed in relief as they continued past. Nearing the end of the path, Fendri exited the chamber to follow another hallway into the castle—this one barred with a heavy metal gate. The level of security for the single, nondescript door and the rickety wooden chair guarding it was puzzling.

The mageLock, tuned to the steward, opened with a groan.

Inside, the steward collected a cloak and tunic and handed it to Risens. Deciding to listen to the man’s advice, he quickly donned the tunic, slipping the second cloak over his currently equipped one. Clearly crafted by tailors who understood their purpose, it was plain—a drab grey—though it contained all the concealed pockets and was reinforced with thin metal plates. Somehow, it still maintain his movement even over a second garment. The tunic had a curious, but thoughtfully designed neck, one that when strapped properly, could be slipped on comfortably even with the Shadows Shroud.

Fendri stood patiently by the door, waiting for him to adjust his outfit. A thought sprang to Risens’ mind—a curious one, but the implications made it plausible. “The code that was used to decipher the Dreamcatchers tome—do you know it?”

 He had little doubt that Fendri had provided the code to the symbols. He was the King’s steward, and had been so for as long as he’d heard told. That he knew far more than he let on was a certainty. From the look of surprise that flashed across Fendri’s face, Risens ascertained he had caught the man off guard. He expected the demand of why he needed the code, so Risens cut him off before he could speak.

“If Trufang is connected to the Dreamcatchers, there might be valuable information in those writings. Having timely clues to the warlord’s plans could mean the difference between life and ruin. If it was they who tried to kill me in the hedges, they possess a level of sophistication and funding far beyond what we know.”

Fendri chewed his lip, the features of his face scrunching in deep thought. After a few moments, he relaxed, letting out a sigh. “I see no harm in that. Be you mindful of the company you will take. Do not share this with the others.”

“Do you not trust them?”

“It matters little who I trust,” Fendri snapped. “I’ve never trusted you, yet the King has seen fit to give you the position of Rightmaker.”

“And you the position of royal kiss-ass.”

Fendri sneered. “It was not Lathrenon who gave me the title.”

The steward’s face betrayed the quickest hint that he’d shared something he hadn’t intended to. Risens, knowing he’d gain no more information by pushing, let it go. He would, however, revisit the information at a later time.

“The code?” Risens said, stretching a hand outward.

Fendri sucked in a deep breath, then removed a small pad and pencil from his breast pocket. With quick but careful intent, he scratched the code onto the page before tearing it off and handing it over.

Risens tucked it discretely into bis breast pocket beside the Raven’s Guide.

Fendri started to turn but stopped himself before reaching the door on the farside where Risens could only assume concealed a windStep.

Turning to view Risens with a peculiar gaze, he said, “Your tasks to this point have been entirely domestic.” His voice was hushed as if afraid to be overheard. “Go with the might of Halthome. Know that if you are compromised beyond these lands, there will be none to come to your aid. You will be a ghost left to haunt the foreign terrain. Keep your wits about you. Mind your surroundings and your company.”

That was the second time in as many minutes the steward had warned him to be cautious around the other assassins tasked to join him. But before he could open his mouth to speak, Fendri placed his hand on the wooden door. The hollow clicking sound of the bolt signaling the mageLock’s disengagement echoed through the stone hallway.

“Come. The assassins wait within.”