Stealth in the Dark Night, Vanguard of the Enemy

Wind swept sand grains into Chen Wuya's face. He raised a hand and wiped at it, his fingertips coming away with fine dust and blood. Without looking back, he said quietly, "Stop."

The group immediately dispersed, crouching against the concave bank of the dry riverbed. Bai Zhi stayed at his right, her sword still sheathed, but her fingers already rested on its hilt.

Not far ahead, several tattered tents stood on the sheltered side of a sand dune, embedded crookedly into the earthen slope. One of them was made of thick dark-brown cloth rather than the coarse hemp commonly used by the army, its edges sewn with dark patterned binding.

"That isn't a marching tent." Bai Zhi's voice was so low it was nearly scattered by the wind.

Chen Wuya nodded. He stared at a drag mark by the corner of the tent—two parallel grooves ran across the sand and disappeared behind the slope, as though something heavy had been hauled through. Yet there were no hoofprints nearby, nor any signs of camel bells wearing against the ground.

"Someone changed the guard," he said. "Not long ago."

An old soldier crept back from the flank and reported from the ground, "Hot air's coming from the vents. The smoke is pale blue—they only lit the fire recently. No more than four people inside, taking turns on watch."

Chen Wuya closed his eyes for a moment. Misaligned Force slowly seeped from his palm into the sand. The returning tremors came in fits and starts, like crisscrossing footsteps, yet also like the friction of crates being shifted. He opened his eyes. "They're handing something over."

Bai Zhi glanced at him. "Do we make a move?"

"If we don't seize this opening, do we wait until they've planted their feet?" He rolled his wrist.