Outpost Seven sat upon a raised spur of black granite three leagues north of the Iron Pass, commanding the narrowest bottleneck of the Ashen Valley.
The outpost consisted of a square stronghold enclosed by a ten-foot wall of dry-stacked dark rock boulders, anchored at the northeast corner by a timber blockhouse. When Lin Tao, Tie Shan, and the scout squad of four nervous border soldiers reached the outer edge, there were no war horns sounding. There were no battle cries or the clash of steel.
There was only silence.
The wind here blew through the gaps in the dark rock wall with a thin, piping whistle, like breath drawn through the hollow teeth of a skull. Around the base of the outer edge wall, the snow was stained a foul, bilious yellow, crusting over the frozen mud in brittle sheets.
“Stay back from the ditch,” Lin Tao warned. He held his arm out to halt the four border soldiers behind him.
The scouts halted instantly, their knuckles white as they gripped their ash-wood spears. Their eyes were wide with terror, staring at the gate of the stronghold. The wooden wicket gate hung open on a single leather hinge, swaying gently in the icy breeze.
