Twenty-four bolts tore across the shelf. Pei Jing watched them through the rain. They were spread across the place where he stood, but the gust coming off the sea bent the whole volley. He shifted his weight as it reached him.
Iron struck the shelf behind his heels. A bolt tore through his sleeve. Three more widened the tear. Two struck between his boots and sent cold mud up his shins. He could still feel his pulse in his fingers. It had held at fifty-four beats a minute.
The guards stared at the torn cloth hanging from his arm.
“Reload!” their leader called. “Pikes down!”
Twenty-six pikes dropped over the bronze wall. The crossbow crews went back to their winches. Up on the ridge, the five elders were already moving.
“Open the fire coils!” Zhao called.
Three snakes of fire slid out of his banner. They came low over the wet shelf, leaving clouds of hot steam behind them. Elder Qian sent his cold-iron sword into the air. It turned once toward Pei Jing’s face and then swung out into the rain. He could hear it coming round from the side.
Sun, Li, and Zhou struck the rock with their formation staves. The bronze light drew in. In the space of a breath, the edge of the array moved from forty yards away to fifteen. Four thousand pounds of qi pressed on Pei Jing’s shoulders. Water hissed around his boots. The air smelled of sulfur.
