"To bring him back."
Cho was back on her feet in an instant. "You said you needed heroes for this quest of yours. This is one of Flaming Fist's men. One of his captains. He is no hero."
"He can be." Ein pulled away the scale and tossed it into the mud, then tore at the man's shirt, exposing a thin stab wound. "Oh, this will be much easier than you. See, he has only one wound."
Cho reached down and pulled the boy to his feet, wincing at the numb twinge that flowed up her arm. "He is dangerous. If you bring him back I will just have to kill him again."
Ein tugged free of Cho and stared at her, pale eyes showing something she couldn't quite grasp. It was an ancient stare, the sort she'd seen in old soldiers who had witnessed too much, and accepted too little.
"All of this will be gone soon," Ein said, pleading. "I can only see it for so long. I have to bring him back before I lose him."
Cho could see the conviction in his eyes and knew Ein would not be swayed. After a few moments the boy crawled back to the dead man. He pulled out a needle and some thread, and set about closing the wound. Cho retreated a few steps, picking her way through the bodies, and waited with her hand on Peace, ready to send the man back to his muddy grave the moment he woke.
Chapter 4
Zhihao Cheng - The Emerald Wind
Whither it blows, east to west or north to south, The Emerald Wind carries the stench of death.
Such is the way of those who prey on the living, and steal from the dead.
The last thing Zhihao saw before the end was the wrinkled face of a swordsman many times his better. It was quite an insult that a man so old could beat him so soundly. He woke now to a much younger face, wide eyed and smudged with mud and ash. Zhihao shot upright, swung a fist at the boy, missed, and began scrambling away through the squelching mud, his lungs burning with new breath. He crawled no more than a few feet then collapsed again, gasping and wondering when it gotten so dark. He could swear it had been day only a moment ago, but the black sky and stars made a mockery of his memory.
"W—What happ…" Zhihao paused his interrogation to lurch forwards and empty his stomach.
"You really were telling the truth about bringing people back," said a woman, standing behind the boy. "I didn't do that." Her right hand was resting on one of the two swords at her side.
"You weren't dead for so long," the boy said. "And some people just have a stronger constitution."
Zhihao wanted to argue that he had the best constitution any man could hope for, but he was finding it difficult to talk, what with all the retching and all. He was still on the riverbank where the old man had run him through, surrounded by the bodies of those he had once called comrades, though certainly never friends. He looked around quickly for his swords, a dual pair of thin blades, hooked at the end, with crescent shaped hand guards as sharp and deadly as the blade itself. They were lying in the mud just a short crawl away. Zhihao rushed forwards, grabbed one, and stood. He swayed on his feet, dizzy from the retching and his brush with death.
"Where is he?" Zhihao tried to crouch into a ready stance and fought off the urge to collapse. He felt more than a little drunk.
"Where's who?" The woman's voice was barely a whisper, he had to concentrate to hear her over the sound of rushing water.
"The old bastard who stabbed me?" Zhihao pulled at his shirt to find a small, poorly stitched wound very close to his heart.
"Flaming Fist's men overwhelmed the Century Blade after he killed you," the boy said, still kneeling in the mud. His hands were idly rubbing his crimson scarf between little fingers. His eyes were far too pale, piercing in such a way Zhihao found them uncomfortable to meet, so he looked anywhere else and found a river clogged with bodies. "They dragged him away, and left your body here."
"Bastards couldn't even be bothered to wake me up." Zhihao laughed. "Never trust the friendship of rogues… Fuck me, I've been robbed." His hands were bare, his rings missing. He touched at his right ear, finding it painful and bloody, his earring missing.
The woman sighed. "Actually, you were dead, so technically you've been looted."
Zhihao snatched his second sword from the ground and pointed one at the boy and the other at the woman. She had yet to draw either of her swords. "One of you best tell me what is going on before I kill you both."
"Please try. It's all the excuse I need." She stood easily in a warrior's stance.
The boy stood and pulled his scarf a little tighter. His stare was so uncomfortable Zhihao took a step backwards, almost tripping over the body of another of Flaming Fist's men. "Zhihao Cheng, The Emerald Wind, what is the last thing you remember?"
"We came out of the waterfall." Zhihao frowned, his memories were blurry, more evidence of a bit too much to drink. "Hundreds of people all huddling around the river. That old bastard standing in front of them all. Flaming Fist ordered the attack and… He killed dozens." Zhihao glanced around at the bodies of Flaming Fist's men; easily fifty of them sprawled along the riverbanks. "We duelled. I put up one hell of a fight, almost killed him twice."
The woman chuckled, and Zhihao spat at her. "You weren't there."
"No," she replied. "I was dead."
"What?" Zhihao shook his head and backed away another step. The woman did look a lot like someone he had recently seen stabbed a great many times. "He stabbed me. Ran me through right here." He tapped his chest. "I… I…"
"You died," the boy said. "I brought you back. I can do that. You're bound to me now."
"I'm not bound to anyone, kid." Zhihao glanced up at the woman, her hand still resting on the hilt of her sword. "And why the fuck do you look familiar?"
The boy took a step forwards. "She is Whispering Blade."
"What?" Zhihao snorted. "No! We killed Whispering Blade. I know. I stabbed you… her myself."
The woman narrowed her eyes. "Once I was already dead?" She was far too calm.
"Fuck this!" Zhihao backed away a few steps, turned, slipped in the mud, then struggled up to his feet and ran away along the riverbank. He was determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and the two before doubling back and picking up Flaming Fist's trail. It was bad enough his own men, those who served under him and were sworn to obey his orders, not only left him for dead, but they had robbed him too. Some slights were too much and that was certainly one of them. All Zhihao had to do was find the camp, kill the bastards wearing his rings, and kneel before Flaming Fist again. The honest truth of it was that some men were easier to serve than to fight and Flaming Fist was one of them. Anybody willing to set their own hands on fire every time they got into a fight was a man worth staying on the good side of. Not that Flaming Fist had a good side, just a slightly less murderous one.
He followed the river, stumbling along through mud and stopping occasionally to pull a body from the banks and search for coin. The farther from the waterfall, the fewer bodies clogged up the river, but even after an hour of walking a few lay scattered about. The coins they carried were meagre things, but it would be enough for a meal and drink at an inn, if he could find one. When Zhihao thought about food his stomach let loose growls that could scare a wolf pack, and his mouth was as dry as sand. The longer it went on, the more tempting the river looked. It would be so easy to wade in and drink to his fill, but Zhihao knew what lay up stream: hundreds of bodies emptying themselves out into the water. That was exactly how disease started, and he'd seen men shit themselves to death before. That was not the end for a man as great as The Emerald Wind.