The north exit of the catacombs overlooked a sunken ravine two hundred yards behind the old gatehouse. Shale cliffs rose two hundred feet on either side. Wind drove sleet through the cleft. Vultures circled above the drifts of frozen gravel.
Pei Jing crouched in a hollow forty feet above the ravine floor, with ivy and moss in front of him. He rubbed the worn face of the Black Mountain Whetstone through the cloth against his ribs. His dusted coat blended with the pale lines in the cliff. Turtle Breathing kept him silent, his pulse at twenty-four.
Eighty paces downwind, the Treasury’s bronze doors groaned open. Six figures came out.
Senior Disciple Yan led them, leaning on a five-foot survey pole. Soot and dried blood stained his pale blue uniform. He dragged his left leg, his broken calf swollen against the split boot.
Sun and Zhao supported Chen between them. His right arm was gone. The fire charm had left a black wound at the shoulder. His lips had gone blue, and his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.
Lu limped alongside with one hand over the bloody bandage around his belly. He’d abandoned his shield along the way. Every few paces he coughed dark blood onto the gravel. The Ghost-Shadow Needle poison had reached his lungs.
