The iron bandage wrapped across Lin Ke’s forehead seeped with yellow fluid and burned like a live wasp sting.
Apothecary He had packed the charred third-degree brand crater with crushed Cold-Marrow Moss. But every step down the rocky trail of the Western Peaks sent a sharp, throbbing spike through the frontal bone of Lin Ke’s skull.
Riding twenty paces ahead was Captain Geng.
The void-court soul-tracker sat upon an armored thunder-beast, a creature resembling a scaly, six-legged wolf whose brass horseshoes struck sparks from the granite. Geng’s silver breastplate was lined with three rows of rotating bone needles. Soul-compasses tuned to detect living dantians within twenty miles.
Behind them marched twenty golden-armored judge executioners, their heavy boots moving with the timed together, clockwork rhythm of a self-running clockwork battalion.
“One league to the gorge entrance, Scholar Lin,” Geng called back, not bothering to turn around. His voice was thin, rasping, like dry leather dragged over gravel. “Lord Chu Rong expects sixty heads before midnight. The Iron Hammer Clan’s patriarch broke three royal recruitment mirrors with a sledgehammer. For that, his entire bloodline will be poured into the melted rock waste pits.”
Lin Ke adjusted his grip on the reins of his mountain mule.
