“Scared?” the captain asks with a smirk, every ounce self-righteous and overconfident.
“Of course. I’m a sane man.”
“I’ve been given express permission to spear you through, should you run. Just so you know.”
Setting my jaw, I weigh my options carefully, only to realize that I have none. I’m trapped in a powerful river current, at the mercy of its flow. My head is above water for now, but one wrong move will see me dragged under. If I try to escape and run home, I’ll be killed. If I march forward with the rest of the invasion, I have less than a razor-thin chance of survival, but at least there’s that.
Near the camp’s fire, people begin to gather, all of them kneeling before a man heavily clad in muted mulberry-stained robes. His mesmerizing headdress is what claims my attention, expertly crafted out of the long feathers of a silver pheasant. An Imperial shaman.
He has a bamboo calligraphy brush in hand, the fine hairs soaked through in red ink. As he recites an incantation in a dialect my ears fail to recognize, the shaman slowly works his way down the line, painting talismans directly onto the breastplates of the waiting soldiers. An apprentice follows closely behind, holding a clay bowl between his palms, thick plumes of smoke rising from it.
The shaman’s work is sloppy, to say the least. The characters meant to ward off evil and bring good luck are barely legible. Some of them are missing crucial strokes, rendering the talismans useless.The shaman does not stop to correct his work. There are too many soldiers to bless and not enough time before battle to do so.
Beside me, the captain makes no effort to join the line.
“Will you not ask for a blessing?” I question.
He scoffs. “The might of my sword will see me through.”
I shrug and kneel at the end of the line. I’ll take all the help I can get. Perhaps I will be one of the lucky ones with a working talisman charm.
The shaman finally makes his way to me, his brush hovering just above my armor. He doesn’t make a move. Instead, he leans forward and squints, regarding me with an intense focus.
“You…,” he mutters slowly, his teeth and tongue dyed completely black with charcoal. The shaman’s eyes glaze over as if he’s in a trance. “You reek of magic.”
Confusion swirls within my skull. Is he part bloodhound? He cansmellmagic? That’s most peculiar, though I suppose Iwashandling dragon scales.
“I do? How can you tell?” I ask him.
The shaman doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he throws a glance toward his apprentice, who stretches out his arms to present the bowl of what I now see are smoldering herbs and small animal parts. The foot of a chicken, the skeletal remains of a snake’s head, along with sprinkles of silver shavings. The shaman breathes in the fumes, a low, animalistic groan escaping him as tremors rack his body. His eyes cloud over, a thick, opaque gray washing over the dark brown of his irises. He no longer seems present, staring through me rather than at me.
“A broken son, a lover shunned,”the shaman rasps.“Three, now two… soon to be one.”
The little hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end. “Sir?”
Behind me, Captain Tian snorts. He grabs me forcefully by thescruff of my collar and yanks me to my feet. “Are you finished? We’re wasting precious time listening to this buffoon.”
The shaman glares as he lifts a long, bony finger and points at the captain.“A violent end you shall meet, your final breath drawn in the arms of His Red Majesty.”
Captain Tian huffs and rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous,” he grumbles before stomping away, dragging me along with one strong hand digging into my bicep.
My heart hammers. I can’t make sense of anything. I have no time to breathe, to process. As the captain drags me toward the mouth of the mountain pass, I catch a glimpse of the shaman one last time. He’s deep in his trance, kneeling down on the muddy ground. He bends at the hips in a full kowtow, muttering all sorts of nonsense under his breath.
I cannot imagine the toll those fumes must take on the human psyche.
6
Soldiers prepare themselves, gathering theirarmaments before falling in line. It’s a long procession of infantry, followed by officers of higher rank on horseback. Supply wagons make up the tail end, largely unguarded. The captain drags me toward the middle of the army masses. He takes up the spot behind me, no doubt to dissuade me from thoughts of escape.
“Move out!” a commander somewhere in the rear ranks shouts.
I remain frozen where I stand, my legs heavier than lead. My throat is tight, my palms are clammy, and my guts twist with such ferocity that I worry I might get sick again all over my boots. There’s no solace to be found in the fact that many of my neighboring soldiers already have. But then I think of my mother, waiting for me at home alone. If I’m to return to her, fear cannot overtake me—though it’s certainly trying its best.
The front of the line marches forward first, and then the row after that, and so on. When it’s finally our turn to move, Captain Tian gives me a hard push. I have no choice but to allow myself to be carried away by the tide of the army.
The mouth of the mountain pass is wider than its middle. The soldiers are quickly forced to break formation, the front linerearranging itself so that only four soldiers stand shoulder to shoulder. There’s no room to turn, only to trudge on.
On either side of us, the jagged mountain walls scale high into the sky like silent sentries, blocking out any trace of sunlight and warmth. The sound of thousands of footsteps rattles against the stone, somehow both thunderous and distant. The air is still with the threat of death, heavy and cold upon our skin. Nobody dares speak.
