Chapter 1: First Blood in the Snow

The moment the blade touched his skin, Ling Chuan woke up.

Cold. First came the cold, then the pain—a thin, searing line across his throat, followed by a rush of warmth soaking into his collar. He snapped his eyes open to find a scruffy, bearded face looming over him. Yellow teeth were bared in a grin, breath smelling of raw meat, muttering words in a tongue he didn't understand. The short knife pressed down another fraction of an inch.

Ling Chuan didn't think. His instincts were faster than his brain—his right hand scrambled through the snow, found a frozen clod of earth, and swung it with everything he had into the man's temple. The man grunted and slumped sideways. Ling Chuan seized the wrist holding the knife, twisted it outward with a sharp *crack*, and the blade slipped free. In one fluid motion, his other hand gripped the hilt and drove it upward, deep into the man's ribs.

Blood sprayed across his face. It was hot.

"Fuck..." He gasped, shoving the corpse away. His head felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer, and a flood of memories that weren't his began pouring in: rammed-earth walls, torches, a seventeen-year-old kid named Ling Chuan, twenty strokes of the rattan punishment three days ago, the Beacon Tower, the Northern Di.

He looked down at his hands. Rough, chapped, nails caked in black grime. They weren't his hands.

"Ling Chuan! You little shit, you still breathing!"

Someone was screaming from beyond the earth wall, their voice cracking. Ling Chuan jolted; he recognized that voice. In the original owner's memories, this was Wang Shuan—the biggest coward on the tower, twenty-three years old and still afraid of the dark.

"Still breathing!" he yelled back, his voice sounding like gravel.

"The Northern Di are inside! Old Zhao is gone! His head... his head is gone!" Wang Shuan sounded like he was about to sob. "Get up here, now!"

Ling Chuan pushed himself up against the wall, his knees shaking. He scanned the area. The Beacon Tower was a three-story rammed-earth structure: stables on the bottom, living quarters in the middle, and firewood and Wolf Smoke on top. He was currently on the leeward slope at the base of the tower. Two bodies lay in the snow—one he had just killed, the other wearing the military livery of the Da Zhou Dynasty, his throat opened in a jagged red maw.

The leeward slope. A spark of modern military knowledge clicked in Ling Chuan's mind. When sneaking up on a sentry in a snowy night, you never take the windward side; the wind hits your face, it's unbearable, and you're exposed. You take the leeward slope—the wind masks your footsteps. These Northern Di scouts were pros.

He stripped the livery off the dead man and threw it on, then fished three arrows from the waist of the Northern Di corpse. Birch shafts, triangular iron heads; the craftsmanship was cruder than the Da Zhou's, but they were lethal. He tucked the short knife into his belt and scrambled up the earthen stairs.

The top of the tower was a disaster.

Wang Shuan was huddled behind a battlement, clutching a torch that was shaking like a leaf. Another man, Liu Da, was crouching by the Wolf Smoke pile, frantically striking a flint, but his hands were shaking so hard the sparks were just vanishing into the snow.

"Don't light it!" Ling Chuan roared.

Liu Da looked up. "If we don't light the Wolf Smoke, how will the camp below know—"

"If we light it, the Northern Di will know there are only a handful of us up here." Ling Chuan climbed up and crouched by the edge, peering down. The snow wasn't heavy, but it was dense; you couldn't make out a face beyond fifty paces. In the dim light below, he counted the torches—seven of them, spread out, avoiding a straight line. They were flanking.

"How many?" Wang Shuan asked.

"Seven," Ling Chuan said. "One's dead, six left. There's three of us."

"What do we do!" Wang Shuan's voice hit a high note. "Let's jump and run!"

"Run?" Ling Chuan glared at him. "You think you can outrun a horse? They've got mounts tethered at the base of the tower. You think your two legs can beat four?"

Wang Shuan went silent, his lips trembling.

Ling Chuan peeked over the battlement again. The six men had split into three groups: two were circling the sides, and one was creeping up the front. The two in front were moving slowly, bows drawn, arrows nocked—they were the cover. The ones on the sides were the ones meant to reach the base and climb.

"Liu Da," Ling Chuan lowered his voice. "Don't throw that flint. Light the firewood, but only half of it. Keep the fire small; we just need smoke."

"Light the wood?"

"Do it. The wind is blowing east; the two on the east side won't be able to see the top of the tower." Ling Chuan grabbed his bow from the wall—a short bow, birch frame, ox-sinew string, with a draw weight of probably seventy or eighty pounds. He tested the string; it was a bit loose, but usable.

"Wang Shuan, bring those two water jars up here. Put them on the battlement, side by side."

"What for?"

"Just do it!" Ling Chuan barked. "Move it!"

Wang Shuan jumped and scrambled back down.

Ling Chuan rubbed the three arrows in the snow to clear the frozen blood. The original owner's memories told him this body was a bowman; he'd placed third in last autumn's drills, capable of hitting a target at fifty paces. But Ling Chuan knew that in his previous life, he'd spent more time on a firing range than this kid had spent breathing.

He crouched behind the battlement, held the bow horizontally, nocked an arrow, and drew. The string brushed his nose as he aligned his right eye with the shaft. The wind came from the left, pushing the snow to the right; he adjusted his aim.

The two in front had reached thirty paces. The lead man held a blade; the one behind had his bow fully drawn, aimed right at the battlement.

Ling Chuan didn't move. He waited.

Twenty-five paces. Twenty.

The archer in the back began to release. Ling Chuan's string snapped first.

The arrow vanished into the snowy night. The enemy archer let out a howl; he never got his shot off, falling backward into the snow, his bow dropping and his own arrow pinning his foot to the ground. The lead man turned around just as Ling Chuan's second arrow arrived, slamming into his thigh. He dropped to his knees, his blade slipping from his grip.

"Hit!" Wang Shuan yelled from below.

"Shut up! Get the jars!"

Wang Shuan and Liu Da hauled up the jars. Ling Chuan had them place the jars on the outer edge of the battlement. The snow filled them and froze quickly, creating a row of four frozen blocks level with the wall, blocking the line of sight.

"What's this for?" Liu Da asked.

"Arrow shields," Ling Chuan said. "If the Northern Di shoot up, the arrows will hit the jars and won't penetrate. You two stay crouched behind them. Don't show your heads."

The two on the east heard the commotion and swung their torches toward them. Ling Chuan shifted to a different battlement, drew, and aimed for the man holding the torch. The arrow flew, the torch dropped into the snow and went out. The remaining man froze, lying flat in a snowdrift and shouting something unintelligible.

The two on the west had already reached the base of the tower. Ling Chuan heard them—the sound of blades scraping against the rammed earth.

"Liu Da, fire!"

Liu Da lit the wood. The dry timber, soaked in oil, roared into a man-sized flame. The smoke rolled east, choking the two men on the west side, sending them into coughing fits.

Ling Chuan slid down the earthen stairs to the second floor and peered through an arrow slit. A Northern Di soldier was stepping on his comrade's shoulders to climb up, his hand already gripping the second-story ledge.

Ling Chuan didn't use the bow. The slit was too narrow to draw. He slung the bow over his back, pulled out the short knife, and crouched inside the slit. The moment the hand gripped firmly, he grabbed the wrist and yanked hard. The man's upper body was dragged through the slit, his head slamming into the earth. Ling Chuan drove the knife into the side of his neck.

The man below was knocked over by the falling corpse. He scrambled up to run. Ling Chuan leaned halfway out of the slit; there was no time for the bow, so he hurled the short knife.

The blade buried itself in the man's lower back. He lunged forward, crawled two steps in the snow, and stopped moving.

The last man on the east, seeing the tide turn, scrambled onto his horse to flee. Ling Chuan climbed to the top, gasping for air as he drew his bow, the string pulled back to his ear.

The horse was twenty paces away.

He released. The arrow arched through the air and slammed into the horse's rump. The horse bucked wildly, throwing the rider. The man rolled twice, scrambled up, and disappeared into the snow.

Ling Chuan didn't chase him. He lowered his bow, his hands shaking too hard to draw the string again.

"That's it," he said. "Light the Wolf Smoke."

By the time the Wolf Smoke was billowing, the horizon was turning a pale blue. Old Xiao Wei arrived with about twenty riders, hooves churning the snowy slush. Old Xiao Wei was in his fifties, with a face like old tree bark. He dismounted and checked the bodies first: five Northern Di, two of their own.

"Where's Old Zhao?" he asked.

"At the base of the tower," Ling Chuan pointed. "His head's gone."

Old Xiao Wei knelt to examine Old Zhao's body, then stood and walked over to Ling Chuan. He was half a head shorter than Ling Chuan, but his presence made the back of Ling Chuan's neck tighten.

"You killed them?" He pointed to the Northern Di corpses with his riding crop.

"Four out of the five were mine," Ling Chuan said. "One got away."

"Got away?"

"Took an arrow to the horse's ass, fell off and ran. The snow was too thick to track him."

Old Xiao Wei narrowed his eyes, staring at him for a long ten seconds. "Your name?"

"Ling Chuan."

"Which Ling Chuan?"

"Bowman of the Beacon Tower, Ling Chuan."

Old Xiao Wei turned to Wang Shuan. "Is he telling the truth?"

Wang Shuan nodded like a bobblehead. "Yes, yes! Commander, if it weren't for Ling Chuan, we'd all be dead. He killed one at the bottom, shot two from the top, then stabbed another..."

"Enough." Old Xiao Wei cut him off and looked back at Ling Chuan. "You just took twenty strokes of the rattan two days ago. Your backside isn't even healed. You were able to draw a bow tonight?"

Ling Chuan's heart skipped. The memory was there—three days ago, Ling Chuan had abandoned his post during the night watch, was caught by the patrol, and was punished with twenty strokes and three months' docked pay. But why he'd left was a blur; he only remembered walking toward a northern ravine.

"The injury is on my ass, not my hands," Ling Chuan said.

Old Xiao Wei's lip twitched, as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh or curse. "You've got a mouth on you." He turned to his men. "Record it: Bowman Ling Chuan, killed four enemies in night combat, five heads recovered, one merit. Wang Shuan and Liu Da, assisted in defense, half a merit each."

"Thank you, Commander!" Wang Shuan dropped to his knees with a thud.

Ling Chuan didn't kneel. He stared at Old Xiao Wei. "Commander, one got away. Once he reports back, the next group won't be seven."

Old Xiao Wei glanced at him. "I know."

"There are only thirteen people on this tower. Only five of us can actually fight. If thirty come next time, we can't hold it."

"We hold it whether we can or not." Old Xiao Wei tapped his boot with the crop. "Forty li south is Heishikou Pass. There are five hundred men there. You light the Wolf Smoke, and they move. But when the smoke rises during the day, they can see the smoke from forty li away, but they can't read the message. How do they know if it's seven men or seven hundred?"

Ling Chuan remained silent.

"That's why you have to send someone," Old Xiao Wei said. "Ride my horse. Go now. Forty li through the snow; you'll make it in two hours."

"Who's going?"

Old Xiao Wei looked at him.

Ling Chuan understood. "Me?"

"You killed the enemy, you know the terrain, your aim is true, and if you run into scouts on the road, you can fight or flee." Old Xiao Wei counted them off. "Who else would go?"

Ling Chuan slung his bow over his shoulder. "Where's the horse?"

The Commander's horse was led over—a chestnut with worn teeth but a sturdy frame. Ling Chuan vaulted into the saddle. Wang Shuan looked up at him, his mouth opening and closing, unable to find the words.

"Wang Shuan," Ling Chuan said, tightening the reins. "Gather all the arrows from the tower. We can use the Northern Di ones; just sharpen the heads. Their iron is better than ours. Keep the fire going. Don't let the smoke stop."

"Yes!" Wang Shuan nodded vigorously. "Be... be careful on the road."

As Ling Chuan turned the horse to leave, Old Xiao Wei suddenly grabbed the reins.

"Wait." He pulled a piece of dry biscuit from his tunic and shoved it into Ling Chuan's hand. "Eat this on the way." He paused, then lowered his voice. "That night you went to the northern ravine... what were you actually doing? Don't give me any bullshit. I've fought for thirty years; I can smell a lie from a mile away."

Ling Chuan stiffened. The memory was a blur, as if buried under snow. He only remembered that when the original owner returned from the ravine, he had been carrying something, which he then hid in a crack in the stable wall at the base of the tower.

"Commander," Ling Chuan said. "When I get back from Heishikou, I'll tell you."

Old Xiao Wei stared at him for a moment, then released the reins. "Get lost."

Ling Chuan galloped south. After half a li, he suddenly pulled the horse to a stop. He looked back at the Beacon Tower; the Wolf Smoke was billowing into the sky. The snow had lightened, and he could see Wang Shuan waving to him from the top.

He felt the piece of dry biscuit in his pocket and thought about the thing hidden in the stable wall.

Three days ago, the original owner abandoned his post to go to the northern ravine and hid something. Three days later, Northern Di scouts hit the tower—seven of them, using the leeward slope, knowing exactly how to approach.

Ling Chuan took a bite of the biscuit; an ice crystal crunched against his tooth. He suddenly felt that the trouble this body had stirred up might be far worse than the Northern Di.

The chestnut horse snorted. He squeezed the horse's flanks and rode toward Heishikou Pass. A string of hoofprints trailed behind him, quickly vanishing under the fresh snow.