In the high, vaulted gallery above the Throat of the Whale, Yan Zhiqiu stood with her back braced against an ancient relief carving of the Drowned Moon.
Her short recurve horn bow was strung with three-ply silk cord, rubbed with dry beeswax to prevent the damp air from slackening the fibers. From the small quiver strapped to her right hip, she drew three arrows. Twenty-inch ash-wood shafts tipped not with forged iron, but with three-sided heads of hardened green slate carved from the discard-flakes of the Broken Slate.
“Slate against brass,” she murmured, resting the first shaft across the horn arrow-shelf of her bow. “The slate has no metal chime. It flies silent as an owl through the dark.”
Below them, five of the twelve tunnel diggers had recovered enough balance to ignite replacement phosphorus torches.
The yellow-green flares cast long, wild shadows against the greenstone walls. Captain Meng had gathered the surviving men into a tight cluster fifty paces down the hall, their repeating fire-lances raised toward the ceiling arches. They had abandoned their heavy air-powered drills and high-pressure jacks. Now, they were fighting for sheer survival. Their eyes were wide with the terror of men who know they are being stalked by an invisible hunter.
