The first iron needle broke the mist at five hundred feet per second.
It was three inches long, forged from hardened pig iron. Then it dipped in glistening green venom that smelled faintly of scorched almond.
A hollow PHT echoed from the limestone crags seventy paces above.
Then four more followed in tight, staggered row.
Two needles whistled toward Lu Chen’s eyes and windpipe.
Three plunged toward the throats of the pack mules.
Lu Chen didn’t draw his weapon.
His sound bronze marrow registered the whistling back-and-forth swing of the needles the instant they left the bamboo blowpipes.
