Pei Jing rose another two inches and set his heels against a root below the water. Through the moss he watched the three men cross the knoll.
They wore mismatched armor over boiled shark leather, with rawhide boots and wide hats of oily reeds. No sect marks. All three were at Layer Nine. Men like these made a living by taking the day’s work from lone foragers.
The tall leader cradled a heavy steel crossbow. Four black iron bolts sat in its bracket. The tips shone with viper poison. The stocky man with the broken nose carried a seven-foot gaff with three barbs and a coil of rope at his hip. The third kept back, watching the trees. He held five darts in one hand and a copper-bound fire-lance in the other.
Out in the open, the leader could put a bolt into Pei Jing from across the shallows. A loud fight might bring the dragon out before he was ready. He needed the men close together.
Pei Jing dipped his face into the black water and pushed away from the root. Dragon-Spine River Swimming took him through the silt without a splash. Thirty paces east, the pools gave way to the Ironwood Ravine. Two fallen trunks had hardened into walls twenty feet high, with eight feet of muddy floor between them. Inside, the men would have little room to spread out.
