Three pounds of cold pig iron hung around Pei Jing’s neck. A rough edge caught above his collarbone every time he stepped. He tightened the muscles in his neck and held the ring just clear of his skin. Blood would bring flies and leeches once they reached the bog.
The fifty-one other captives trudged along the south bank. Six Cloud Mist disciples brought up the rear. Talismans held their white hems three inches above the mud. Anyone who slowed felt a copper-bound switch across the shoulder. Senior Brother Yan walked behind them with an eight-inch bronze compass. Its red needle tracked the runes on their collars.
Two miles beyond the timber walls, the gorge opened into the Outer Bone Mire. Black peat lay between rotting cypress roots. Gas broke the surface of yellow-green pools. The fog smelled of rotten eggs, boiled cabbage, and old fat. At forty paces, the peaks vanished into it.
“Halt,” Yan called.
The gravel path ended in black mud. The column stopped at the edge.
“The outer defenses begin four miles in. The Mountain-Clearing Sect hid wind wards, spikes, and fire pits in the ground to keep rivals away from the treasury. The land sank, and the old paving went with it.”
