Fifteen paces from the dragon’s front feet to his heels. That was the gap Pei Jing wanted between himself and the Iron-Armored Flood Dragon. Any farther and it might lose him in the dark. Any closer and a slip on the river gravel could put him in its jaws.
In the open marsh, the dragon could outrun a galloping horse. It had four clawed feet, a long, supple spine, and a belly barely three feet off the ground. Pei Jing had wet leather boots and the Devil’s Throat.
He left the high cliffs at the mouth behind and ran down the inner cut. Wind came cold off the mountains. Here the lower walls rose thirty-five feet on either side and narrowed until they nearly met the dragon’s shoulders. The roar of the chase bounced between them.
Four strides in, four strides out. The Chaos Root sent metal and wind qi down his legs, taking the sting out of every step on the sharp stones. The twenty-two-pound Cloud-Splitter rode against his back on two sharkskin straps. The Black Mountain Whetstone was tight in its oiled pouch at his waist.
The dragon came into the throat without slowing. Its armored sides scraped both walls at once. Sparks sprayed through the mist and lit the gorge in bursts. Chips of black rock flew into the water.
