BLACKFEET

  Night had well settled over the valley like a thin veil, when Blackfeet left the entrance of the old ramp.

  Mist drifted low between the trees, weaving through the roots until the forest floor became a pale, shifting sea. He swam through it as quietly as the fog itself.

  Backtracking the thin cord lying across the damp snow to the outer edge of the woods, he couldn’t help reevaluating the group.

  They were thorough. Careful. And clearly knew what they were doing.

  A shallow footprint marked the damp soil, half hidden beneath a scatter of fallen leaves. Most travelers would have passed it without a second glance. But to Blackfeet, the earth whispered.

  He knelt.

  Not a normal soldier’s boot. Too light. The edges of the mark were broken where the heel had twisted slightly on stone, the way trained travelers moved when they expected trouble.

  He recalled the dark figures he had spotted earlier in the afternoon. Together with this track…

  Seekers?

  It had to be them.

  There were not many people in this world who could make him hesitate to step within thirty paces. Those cloaked shapes were one of them.

  What had they sensed? What had they discovered? And why had they lingered so damn long inside that cavern? And those terrible noises from below–what had that been?

  The questions kept rising in his mind, one after another. He had waited there all afternoon—perhaps longer. Even for a man as patient as he was, this had become too passive.

  He needed to do something.

  Descend the cavern and take a look?

  Blackfeet shivered at the thought. Every instinct in his body had warned him that something down there was terribly dangerous. Not a place for him to wander into.

  And his instinct was never wrong. Never. The last time–the only time–he had ignored it and struck anyway, he had paid dearly.

  Thinking about that, something bitter rose in his throat and he winced.

  Damn it. That woman had humiliated the name Blackfeet so completely it still burned. And that wasn’t even his real name.

  No one knew his real name—not even himself. But Blackfeet was the moniker he had chosen, the name he wore with pride as a shadowrook. And that woman had practically pissed on it and walked away without even wiping.

  My fault.

  Blackfeet suppressed the urge to sigh. He drew his knife and moved to cut the cord.

  If they were not coming out, then there was no reason for him to leave this trail behind for someone else to follow.

  Just then, the cord moved.

  Something was tugging at it from the other end—out beyond the edge of the woods. Was there someone else out there?

  Blackfeet released the line and slipped behind a nearby tree, vanishing into the shadows.

  The cord rustled, slowly drawing tight. Then, at a certain point, it slackened again, very gradually—as if someone were lifting it free from the snow, or just want to check.

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  Heavy footsteps followed.

  About twenty paces from where Blackfeet lay hidden, the steps stopped. In their place came the sound of someone sniffing the air, sharp and deep, as if trying to catch a scent.

  What now? A man, or a wolf?

  Blackfeet stayed perfectly still. He did not dare lean out to look. Even his breathing slowed to half its rhythm. Across the clearing, the other presence seemed just as motionless.

  The silent standoff stretched on—so long he could not tell how much time had passed—until at last the heavy pressure in the air began to fade.

  Carefully, Blackfeet eased one eye past the edge of his cover and glanced around.

  No one was there.

  My kind. Blackfeet realized faintly. Someone who knew–as he did–when to stop, and when to withdraw. And they did it with competence.

  Then something clicked in his mind.

  Another Seeker?

  He had seen three of them enter the forest this afternoon, but he had never spotted their horses. Someone must have stayed behind to guard them.

  No wonder the bastard had been so sharp.

  With that realization, a smile crept across his face. I still hold the advantage. He doesn’t even know I exist yet.

  Even so, he chose caution.

  Instead of following the cord directly, Blackfeet circled wide, moving in a slow arc as he crawled his way toward the edge of the forest.

  The wind carried the scent faintly—leather worn by long travel, steel oil, damp wool. It drifted through the trees like the fading echo of a song.

  He lifted his head. Far ahead, something flickered.

  Firelight.

  His mouth curved slightly in the darkness.

  From the ridge he watched the small camp below—if it could be called a camp at all. The Seekers had chosen a narrow shelf of stone where the forest thinned against the mountain. The fire burned low, its light painting the rocks in restless orange shapes that crawled across the ground like living things.

  Four horses, Blackfeet counted. Means four horsemen.

  So there was only one opponent.

  Blackfeet licked his lips. His eyes swept the clearing once. Then again. And—

  There!

  Sitting well away from the fire, motionless beneath a pine tree, was an older man. At first glance he might have been mistaken for part of the roots themselves.

  Blackfeet narrowed his eyes.

  The man’s beard and hair had already turned gray, and though his eyes appeared closed, Blackfeet was certain he was not asleep.

  He raised a small crystal sphere to his eye.

  The image warped and swelled within the glass, magnifying the distant figure. There, upon the man’s cloak, Blackfeet caught the emblem—a black tern with wings spread over silver waves.

  A Seeker, indeed.

  Blackfeet had always despised these men.

  Not merely on a personal level. By their very purpose in this world, Seekers stood in direct opposition to everything he was. Natural enemies.

  If he could kill one…

  No.

  Killing would be easy—but what would it prove?

  Far better to capture one. He had ways of emptying a man of everything he carried inside. Everything in his belly, everything in his mind. Sometimes both.

  But the moment Blackfeet shifted, the old man rose to his feet. He turned his head slowly, scanning the darkness around him.

  Blackfeet froze.

  The old man carried himself differently this time. Even in stillness there was a balance in his stance, the kind that came only from long familiarity with danger. His gaze drifted beyond the treeline, as if he expected the night itself to answer him.

  What's he doing?

  The man removed the strip of cloth wrapped around his forehead and folded it carefully into an even triangle. Then he bent down, picked up a stone about the size of an egg, and placed it neatly in the center of the cloth.

  He began to spin it.

  A sling?

  Blackfeet smirked faintly. Who was the old man trying to frighten?

  The smile froze—and vanished the instant the man’s arm snapped forward.

  CRACK.

  The sound split the night like a whip.

  Something sliced through the air just above Blackfeet’s head. The rush of wind against his scalp made his skin crawl. A heartbeat later came the sharp crack of breaking pine branches from the great tree behind him.

  A crow burst from the foliage, crying harshly into the dark.

  The old man narrowed his eyes, as if weighing something, then turned and calmly sat back down beneath the tree. However, the sling in his hand remained ready and loaded.

  Only then did Blackfeet realize he was drenched in sweat, despite the cold night.

  He drew in a slow breath. Every trace of the arrogance he had felt moments ago was gone.

  An old Seeker is a dangerous Seeker. That much was clear now.

  Interrogation? What a joke. He would be lucky just to defeat the old man in a fair fight. And that would be the stupidest way to do it. Blackfeet was no warrior. Combat had never been his strength. The lesson from a few days ago had made that painfully clear.

  But assassination was different.

  Killing in the dark was the art of the night. And he… was the night.

  All he needed was an opening. One chance–just one chance.

  A moment’s doze. A careless step away to relieve himself. A gust of wind that altered the firelight for a heartbeat.

  Anything.

  Just one single chance.

  And the night...was still young.