Firelight flickered across Chen Wuya's face. He stood motionless atop a broken pillar, his left hand hanging at his side as blood dripped from his fingertips onto his shoes. The cloth shoes, patches piled upon patches, were already soaked through on one side.
Bai Zhi leaned against the stone wall, her flexible sword laid across her knees as her gaze swept over every face. Of the four people remaining, two could still hold a blade, one was barely supporting himself with a dislocated shoulder, and the last was curled on the ground, gasping, his lips purple.
"They've pulled back," an old soldier said in a low, trembling voice. "But they haven't gone far."
Chen Wuya did not reply. He stared at the darkness at the end of the eastern corridor, the direction from which the enemy had retreated. The rhythm of the earthfire eruptions still echoed in his ears—one burst every twelve breaths, burning for nine, followed by a gap of three. That pattern was not natural. Someone was controlling the fire. Which meant the other side was afraid too—afraid of setting the entire passageway ablaze and trapping themselves inside.
So he wasn't in a hurry to kill us. He was waiting for the fire to shift, looking for the surest moment to strike.
As the thought settled, he suddenly bent down and pulled an oilcloth bundle from his pack. Inside was half a jar of fire oil, emergency supplies each member of the alliance army had been issued before departure. He weighed it in his hand, then looked to Bai Zhi. "Do you remember that eastern air vent? Thirty-seven steps away, with an iron grate slanting down beneath it."
Bai Zhi frowned. "You want to draw the fire there? That connects to the main conduit. Light it, and it'll