The creak of the tightened crossbow mechanisms was swallowed by the howling north wind. Night snow stretched across the sky; heaven and earth merged into a single sheet of grey. Twenty zhàng away, seven black silhouettes slid close to the newly abandoned defensive line, their soles wrapped in thick felt so their steps left no sound.
"Boss, the Chu camp really pulled the stakes!" the short man whispered, eyes greedy. "Must be the wind and snow froze that woman's brain!"
The scar-faced man at the front suddenly crouched, dragging a fingertip through the snow—the half-section of hemp rope showed a clean, knife-cut break.
"They pulled the stakes and left a rope…?" his pupils narrowed. He growled, "Bad—an ambush—"
Before he could finish, a shrill whistle rang from the southeast corner.
In an instant the snowy mist exploded: more than ten giant nets sprang up from beneath the ground, the iron hooks at their edges flashing cold light! At the same time, side-mounted ballistae roared; three-pronged, armor-piercing bolts tore the night and pinned shut the escape routes.
"Close the nets!"
Zhao Dashan leapt out of a snow pit with a roar, his blade scattering two that tried to cut the nets. "Get into the jar!" he bellowed.
The shadows howled as they hacked at the ropes, but the cords had been soaked in tung oil and were unusually resistant; blades could not bite them. The scar-faced man's eyes flashed red; he hurled a fire-paper tube.
"Burn the nets!"
Flames leapt up. At that moment a figure in moon-white flashed across the scene.
Shen Yuzhu raised a finger; silver light streaked out as three golden needles sliced the air and struck the fire. As the needles vibrated, they flung off fine shards of ice— the flames hissed and were smothered by frost in an instant.
"North Di wildfire collapses when it meets ice," he said, sheathing the needles, his tone casual as if discussing tea or chess. "How many fire-papers do you lads still have?"
"Who are you?!" the scar-faced man roared.
The answer came as a spear cleaved down through the air.
Chu Hongying vaulted in on horseback; the spear tip knocked the last bowman aside, then she reversed the motion and swept the shaft like an iron club, smashing the scar-faced man onto the net.
"Tie him up!" she ground her boot into his neck.
At that instant a chill struck the back of her head.
A sleeve arrow—silent, invisible—was stabbed straight at her skull.
In the flash of danger a crisp sound rang out— a white porcelain teacup flew, striking the arrowhead and shattering with a crash. Porcelain shards sprayed; a figure slipped between them, and with a flick of wide sleeves snared the remaining arrow.
Shen Yuzhu stood behind her, breath quickened, his sleeve stained with medicine. "The general's cloak—" he inclined his head to avoid the spill. "It has dampened my ephedra broth."
Chu Hongying turned; she saw his palm dripping crimson, the pale fingers cut by the porcelain. She grabbed his wrist, voice low: "Your hand!"
Blood beaded from the cuts onto the snow like red plum blossoms opening in the night. Shen Yuzhu smiled faintly. "Should've used an iron cup, I suppose."
"Shut up." She tore a strip from her inner lining and, rough but practiced, bound his wound. Her peripheral glance caught a half strip of bandage slipping from his sleeve—and beneath it, a cold pattern identical to the tattoo at the nape of a captured man.
Her eyes hardened.
Shen Yuzhu withdrew his hand slowly, expression unreadable. "Small wound, nothing. These prisoners, however, ought to be interrogated."
Before his words finished, the scar-faced man suddenly surged again! He hacked through the net and lunged like a madman for the ballista mechanism— intent on mutual destruction!
Chu Hongying's spear flicked up, but she could not stop him in time.
A blast— a brazier exploded, white charcoal spraying. Shen Yuzhu's golden needles shot out, not at men but into the powder in the brazier.
The powder ignited with a blinding white flare. Everyone's eyes were seared blind in an instant. When sight returned, the scar-faced man lay collapsed; a half needle protruded from the back of his neck.
"Shh—" Shen Yuzhu bent, withdrew the needle, his voice a soft whisper. "A rowdy wolf pup must be put to sleep."
Chu Hongying's cold gaze fixed on him. "A snow-blind needle, eh?"
"Trickery," Shen Yuzhu said, wiping blood from the needle with composure. "Far less splendid than the general's spear work."
"Both of you!" Zhao Dashan fussed nearby. "Could you stop praising each other? We still have these prisoners to bind!"
The soldiers surged forward and pressed the remaining Di men flat into the snow.
Chu Hongying hooked a spear tip beneath one prisoner's jaw, voice frosty. "Who sent you?"
The man sneered and bared his teeth as if ready to die. "The wolf-god's son will—"
Before he could finish, the spear pressed to his throat; blood spurted. Chu Hongying's gaze did not waver. "Once more—who sent you?"
Another prisoner finally cracked and screamed: "It— it was Prince Wuzhu! He said… there's a traitor in the camp!"
Shen Yuzhu cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "General, may I have a word?"
Inside a side tent he produced a bronze token from his hand, its wolf head carving dark and dull. "This was slipped from that leader's bosom. It's a Di dark-guard's directive token."
Chu Hongying's pupils narrowed. "When did you—"
"He lunged at the ballista and I took it," Shen Yuzhu answered coolly. "More interesting is that such tokens come in a pair."
He touched the wolf's eye with a fingertip. "This is the female token. The male token's bearer can sense the female. In other words—"
"There's a male token in the camp. An inside man knew about tonight's attack." Chu Hongying's mouth twisted into a cold smile. "Coordinated from within and without. Well planned."
At that moment Zhao Dashan's shout came from outside: "General! The prisoners—all dead!"
They rushed out. Seven bodies lay together, black froth at their mouths; they had bitten open poison sacks and died. Only the scar-faced man hung by a thread, eyes wild, staring at the short blade at Shen Yuzhu's waist.
"You… finally…" he rasped, then died.
Shen Yuzhu showed no change in expression—he merely raised his sleeve and brushed blood from his cheek. "What a pity."
Chu Hongying suddenly snatched the short blade from his waist!
The blade slid three inches free; the wolf head carving gleamed under the firelight. Its pattern matched the bronze token exactly.
Soldiers drew their swords at once, steel leveled at Shen Yuzhu. Zhao Dashan's voice trembled, "Master Shen, you—"
But Shen Yuzhu looked at Chu Hongying, his brow unchanged. "What does the general think?"
Chu Hongying flicked the blade tip with her finger; her eyes burned. "The carving is the same, but it's an old mark—three degrees deeper than a new cut."
She lowered her voice. "This short blade is something you were born carrying, isn't it?"
"A family heirloom," Shen Yuzhu said calmly as he took the blade back. "If the general doubts me, I'll hand over my weapon."
Snow beat against the tent flaps. Chu Hongying waved a hand sharply. "All of you—fall back! Zhao Dashan, have the bodies examined and searched."
They withdrew.
Chu Hongying hauled him close so only they could hear. "Shen Yuzhu, the pattern beneath your sleeve matches the assassin's tattoo."
Shen Yuzhu's lashes trembled, yet he hooked her wrist and pressed his fingertip to her pulse.
"And?" he breathed, his eyes deep. "If you truly suspect me, your move should be to choke my pulse right now, not to probe my old wounds for anything that might hamper my strength."
Chu Hongying froze.
He… had read that her old shoulder wound was flaring?
Shen Yuzhu smiled low. "The north wind told me. It said—your spear missed by three parts tonight."
Beyond, the drum sounded again and cold wind stirred the flames. Shen Yuzhu straightened and bowed slightly. "It is the third watch and three quarters; I must go brew the second batch of ephedra broth."
As he turned, his sleeve flicked and a bronze token slid silently into Chu Hongying's palm. It was the male token.
"General," he glanced back, his expression softening, "since the inside man carries the female token, they will now know the bronze is in your hand. Make sure… you lock the tent doors."
Chu Hongying looked down; the token was ice cold.
Firelight lit the rising warlike gleam in her eyes.
"Zhao Dashan!" she called in a low voice. "Bring me my Rift-wind Spear!"
Her lips curved in a cruel arc. "And tell Master Shen—say this: I am afraid of the dark, so ask him to keep watch in the main tent tonight."
The wind laughed softly, like a jade chime dropping on snow.
"Consider it done."