Zhihao reached the inn just as the sun was dipping below the western horizon. He was a good distance ahead of the woman and boy. It was a large building, sturdy wooden planks nailed together and only a few spots of rot sinking in. It looked much the same as the last time he had visited it, save for the grisly scarecrows on the approach, and a new paper sign written in the common tongue: Safe Succour. The name made Zhihao smile; it was as much a plea to people like him, as it was an advertisement for weary travellers. A familiar stench in the air wrinkled the nose and tickled the back of the throat. Zhihao tried his best to ignore it, but he knew the smell too well. Unwashed bodies, the living kind, upwind, sour and stale.
The last of Flaming Fist's warnings before the inn was a very different kind to the others. There was far less of a body to this one. Instead of a stake, a hasty wooden sign had been hammered into the ground just outside the door to the inn. Nailed to the centre of the sign was a hand. The skin was wrinkled and grey; the cut end was torn bloody flesh. The hand still grasped a long, slender sword decorated with an ornate engraving of a dragon. Zhihao stared at the it for a few moments, and felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. Then he looked back up the road to where the woman and the boy were quickly approaching, having offered prayer to the last of the corpses. He considered kicking the sign over and hiding the sword, but they were close enough to see him, and that would just lead to questions. He was still standing there when they caught up to him, but he just about managed to wipe the smile from his face before they saw it.
He half expected the woman to weep at the sight, but she didn't. She stopped in front of the sign, a grim set to her lips, and bowed her head. Then she took the sword from the lifeless hand with a care approaching reverence.
"Whose hand is that?" the boy asked, uncurling the lifeless fingers.
"It belongs to the man who killed me," Zhihao said, not quite managing to keep the good humour from his voice. "Sorry, belonged. I guess it belongs to the crows and the worms now."
The woman turned a hostile glare on Zhihao, and knelt in front of the sign, holding the sword in both hands like some sort of offering. She bowed her head and closed her eyes.
"What are you doing?" the boy asked, but she did not answer.
"Ignore her," Zhihao sniffed the air again and looked about. "She's probably offering a prayer for his safety or something. He's definitely dead you know. Hand hacked off like that... I've seen people bleed to death from less. Now then, let's find out who stinks shall we?"
The boy followed Zhihao closely as they walked past the entrance to the inn, ignoring the faces peering at them from the windows, and approached the far side of the building. Actually the boy was a little too close for Zhihao's liking, and every time he tried to step farther away the boy closed the gap.
A new smile broke across Zhihao's face when they turned the corner. A few paces from the wall of the inn, two men sat around a good-sized fire. They were laughing and drinking from a couple of wine bottles, occasionally taking turns to spit on the fire so it roared with flames. There was a single body not far away, slumped against the side of the inn. An old man with only one hand and no sword. He was dead, his sky blue robe stained red in many places.
"Ringan, Hufeng," Zhihao shouted as he approached, arms wide. "You can't begin to imagine how happy I am to see you two."
Ringan jumped up and away from the fire, fumbling at the sword attached to his belt, while Hufeng just frowned and took another pull from the bottle in his hand.
"I recognise you!" Ringan hissed, finally drawing his little sword and wiping a sheen of sweat from his grimy forehead. It did little to help, just spread the greasy sweat all over his face.
"Well, I should hope so."
"You're dead," Hufeng said. It sounded a lot like an accusation.
Zhihao shook his head, and stopped well clear of the little man's little sword. "Not at all. It was a glancing blow, knocked me a little senseless, but I'm still very much alive."
The boy grabbed Zhihao's hand and Zhihao felt that horrible stinging numbness up his arm again. He pulled away quickly and tried to put some distance between them, but the boy followed again.
"No. No, I remember it clearly. You were stabbed through the heart," Hufeng said. He was much larger than Ringan, both in height and bulk, and had a deep voice to match his size. He also carried a nasty scythe attached to a chain, but he wasn't whipping it about just yet.
Zhihao shook his head and offered a warm smile that only went as far as his lips. "Stopped by my trusty scale." He banged a fist against his dented armour, and winced at the pain in his chest.
"The blade went right through," the fat man said, a rictus grip on his wine bottle. It was hard to argue with Hufeng, given that over a dozen men, Flaming Fist included, had likely seen him die. "Kui said he even heard one of your fingers snap when he stole your rings, and you didn't so much as blink."
Zhihao raised his left hand and looked at his little finger. "That would explain the pain." He wiggled it a little and shuddered. The knuckle felt like it was full of broken glass. "But as you can see I'm definitely alive. Trust your own eyes, I always say, and not those of a thieving little shit goblin. Believe me, I'll be having words with Kui. Sharp words backed up by steel." Zhihao decided the best way to stop them from asking too many questions, was to ask a few of his own. He sat down on one of the logs near the fire and extended his hands towards the flames. The boy hovered just over his shoulder, fiddling with that little red scarf of his. "So where is everyone?"
"Back along the road a couple of days," Hufeng said, finally getting to his feet. "Been there a while now. Set up camp in the usual spot. Fist sent us out to look at the city, see if it's worth raiding again. Not that we have enough people these days."
"Again?" Zhihao laughed. "The fires have barely cooled from the last time."
"What?" Hufeng's hand reached for the scythe at his belt.
"Who's the boy?" Ringan asked, manoeuvring around Zhihao as though he were contagious.
Zhihao glanced back at the boy. His pale, anxious stare moved from one man to the next as he rubbed his red scarf between fingers. There was fear there, as well there should be. Zhihao had long ago learned it was wise to fear men like him. "I have no idea. He's been following me since I woke up at the river. Feel free to kill him for me."
Chapter 7
By the time Cho rounded the corner of the inn two men were advancing on Ein while The Emerald Wind sat by the fire, staring into the flames. The smaller of the two, held a short sword, and the tall, fat one had a hand on a scythe hanging from his belt. Ein backed away a step, tripped over a discarded wine bottle, and fell on his arse. Cho quickened her pace.
The big man yelled down at Ein. "Who are you? And why are you wearing—" He died mid-sentence as Cho drew Peace and sliced him across the body in one fluid, practised motion.
The little man yelped and raised his sword. Cho set Peace humming with a whispered word, and sliced down, cutting both the man's sword, and his body in two. It was all so quick and clean; both bodies hit the ground at the same time. Blood from the smaller man sprayed The Emerald Wind across the chest, and he leapt up, and danced away from the fountain of gore.