The red dusk was swallowed by the cold, rotten-egg night as the four figures cleared the southern wooden wall of Red Mist Valley.
The guard at the gate had barely looked up from his fire bowl. Seeing Scarface Wei’s wolf-hide coat and drawn broadsword, he had simply swung the heavy timber beam aside and spat into the ditch, well accustomed to the Black Serpent guards marching debtors into the dark.
Pei Jing walked three paces ahead, his dark linen tunic soaked with the oily drizzle that clung to the cliffs.
Behind him, forming a tight triangle of crushing weight, walked his executioners.
Scarface Wei kept the point behind Pei Jing’s right shoulder, the naked steel of his broadsword resting loosely across his forearm. Hook-Hand Liu trailed to the left. His poisoned iron gaff tapped against his rawhide belt in a rhythmic, metal rhythm. Thin Ghost Cao brought up the rear, his repeating crossbow cocked and resting across his chest, the brass magazine glinting dully in the dark.
“How much further, scholar?” Wei rasped, wiping rain from his scarred eyebrow. “The mud is getting thick. If you’re leading us on a wild stroll through the bog, I’ll take your left foot off right here.”
