Chương 13: Honor in Death, V

Wu Hao spent a few minutes laying there, just trying to catch his breath, trying to ignore the corpse next to him until it dawned on him that the next patrol would probably pass by here again. Looking around to see if there'd been any witnesses or, failing that, a light to see by, he gave up and squinted at his clothing. Had any of 589's blood spilled on him, or was there anything else that could give him away?

He felt around near his back and felt thick wet patches that stuck slightly to his fingers and tried not to sigh, knowing he'd not only gotten blood on him but that it was probably on his hands as well, now. In the end, he decided on a simple plan of action. He first ran his hands through the grass until he was relatively sure they were clean, then carefully loosened several of the strips that he wore and took them off.

Fighting to not shiver in the cold as his skin was exposed to the frigid mountain air, he then did the same to a couple of 589's bandages. Wu Hao felt carefully to see if any blood had gotten on any of the strips of cloth, and he had to rifle the corpse a few times to find enough cloth to replicate the usual rags he wore. It'd have to do, one way or another. No better solutions presented to himself after thinking for a bit, so he glanced over to 589.

"It's not personal," he whispered. Then he dragged 589's body over to the latrines and pushed him in, watching the other boy roll down the slight slope and disappear into the ditch, landing with a wet smack in the latrine's muck. It wasn't the most dignified burial, but none of the deathsworn had ever really been given a burial at all. In a twisted way, if he'd manage to kill the cultist at some point by using 589's dagger, that would be the most honor 589 might ever receive. That brought him to another problem.

What was he going to do with the dagger now that he had one? Grumbling under his breath, Wu Hao finally shoved the dagger into the grass, not too far from where he'd hidden his tent peg the first time around. He'd left the sheathe with 589, which might lead to questions of their own, but he'd done enough. Hopefully, at least. If not, he'd die. Wouldn't be the first time, though this specific situation was new. Wu Hao walked back, keeping an eye out for the swinging lights that indicated the patrol.

The camp was quiet, though, and he encountered no one else before reaching his own tent again. Suppressing a yawn, he opened the tent flap and ducked his head in, looking quickly around the tent to see if anyone had spotted his absence. Someone had. The moonlight fell on a pair of open eyes that was looking straight at him. Wu Hao froze, hand still keeping the tent flap open and letting the cold air in. 732 was awake, and he'd seen Wu Hao.

They stood there for the space of several breaths and Wu Hao wished desperately that he'd still had his dagger, but then 732 shook his head slightly and let himself fall back onto the ground, as if to say that whatever had happened was none of his business. But his qi, which had stirred slightly when he'd seen Wu Hao, didn't quiet. It just lay slightly dormant, ready to be activated, should Wu Hao decide that 732 did need to be silenced.

Wu Hao resumed breathing and walked over to the edge of the tent, laying himself down on the ground near the entrance of the tent so that he could still try and get out, if it came to that. Neither he or 732 actually trusted each other in the slightest, so he was fully prepared for the rest of the night to be brutally tense. Just as he'd resolved to keep watch and not sleep, though, another suppressed yawn ripped through him and his eyes slid shut.

They only opened again when he was awakened by someone throwing up the tent flap again. It was one of the older deathsworn again, but this time there was a grim cast to his emotionless face.

"Wake up," he commanded.

"Something's happened. Father has an announcement to make." Wu Hao's heart sank. He was pretty sure he knew what the something that had happened was. Someone must've discovered 589's body. He breathed in quickly, some panic setting in before reason reasserted himself. If they knew he'd done it, then he'd just have been hauled out of the tent and executed. Since he still lived, that meant he hadn't been executed. That logic seemed more than a little flimsy, but he'd hold onto it.

It meant he still had a chance, however small. Hurrying outside, he tried to check the bandages now that he had a little more light to see by, then almost fell back into a panic when he realized his hands were still flecked with blood. He rubbed them hurriedly, trying to make the rest of the blood disappear, and clenched his hands tight to hide the stains that remained.

The rest of him was mercifully clean, or at least not flecked with blood, and he got only the usual stares as the others shambled out of the tent and into the dawn. As a group they trudged outwards, to where Father had set up his usual stage, with one addition. 589's body lay on display. Not in a coffin, but just atop a cheap table like the ones that were used for cooking duties. Father hadn't made any effort to restore 589's dignity, so his body lay there clothed only in thin strips of clothing.

His neck was still a ruin and he was covered in muck. Wu Hao shifted as he was suddenly very aware that he was wearing the dead boy's clothes, and then realized shifting would look suspicious, so he tried to remain still instead. The thin white stripe had lost a lot of its luster. It looked almost forlorn now that it was one of the few bits of cloth draped across 589's chest. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Next to the stage, Father stood.

The Uncles were present as well, looking oddly miserable. Uncle Bai's wine flask had disappeared somewhere and he looked moody and ill at ease with himself. Uncle Liu, in charge of the medicines, looked possibly even worse, hands clapsed in front of him in a way that suggested nervousness. The last Uncle who held cultivation guidance was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the Honor Guard had already filed in. As Wu Hao passed them, though, he couldn't have read any expression on their faces - as blank as always.

Something about their bearing spoke of both anger and unease, though.

"I have unfortunate news," Father began, arms clasped behind his back.

"As you see, someone killed one of our own last night." He gestured towards 589's corpse. That said, though, he seemed mostly angry. There were no tears in his eyes, no expression of sadness or grief. Wu Hao decided that it was more like the anger of a farmer whose tool had just broken while he was plowing the fields.

"One of the Honor Guard, no less!" Father shouted.

"That makes this not just an attack on us." Father slammed a fist onto the table atop which the corpse lay, which shook under the blow.

"This," he seethed, "is an attack on me. Me!" Robes swishing, Father pivoted on his heel and began to pace a line, back and forth, as he worked himself up to a fury and ranted. Wu Hao only listened with half an ear to the man's tirade, too busy trying not to stand out or to try and sneak another glimpse of the corpse. It hadn't been his first kill. He remembered having killed before, during the trials to become one of the deathsworn, but he hadn't killed like this.

He'd never before had to try and get away with it under Father's watchful eye. Terror was making him numb. Finally Father's furious speech lowered to a more reasonable volume, catching Wu Hao's attention.

"Either we have a traitor," Father said, "or an outsider has infiltrated our camp. Anything else is impossible. Either is odious to even consider, and yet we have no other choice." He stared around the crowd of deathsworn like he was hoping to learn something from their blank eyes.

"I ask all of you," Father said.

"Tell me now who did this. If any of you know anything and you don't tell me, I will find out. I will not offer a reduced punishment for you - I only promise to make your death swift." Silence. Father's speeches were wasted on those who weren't allowed to react to them, Wu Hao couldn't help but think. Father stalked forward, peering into the frontline, composed of honor guards. Wu Hao kept his face as impassive as he could, adopting the look that all the others did.

Father stared at them as the silence grew longer and longer, before finally he swished his sleeve and let his hand drop.

"You've had your chances," he declared.

"After this, I shall show no mercy to the assassin. My vengeance will be swift, and my vengeance will be terrible." His sleeve swished as he gesticulated. Then he summoned his qi - an immense amount of golden energy that smelled, oddly enough, of cinnamon, but a lot more pungent. Wu Hao fought not to have his nose crinkle at the sheer power of the scent. It was overpowering everything else, to the point where if it'd been a natural scent the entire area would have smelled like cinnamon for days.

He stretched out a single hand, transferring more golden energy there than five of the deathsworn together could have provided, and then concentrated it, distilling it down again and again until it became a thick ball of power. Then he flicked the entire ball of energy at 589's corpse.

"Samadhi Fire," he declared. The ball of power splashed against 589's face, and wherever it hit began to burn like nothing else Wu Hao had ever seen. It was a brilliant golden flame that burned without heat, or at least no heat Wu Hao could feel, and it began turning the corpse to ashes in moments. Then even the ashes began to burn themselves up until there was nothing left - nothing to suggest that a body had once been there. Even after everything had burned up, the flame lost none of its potency.

It simply sat there, flickering not in response to any wind but instead something else. And then it flickered, almost hungrily, stirring like a living thing. It formed itself up, higher, then bunched up on itself again, consuming itself until only a small ember remained. Wu Hao thought the ember would extinguish, but instead it began to move away from where the corpse had been. Father stared at it with grave eyes, watching as it began to move towards the crowd of deathsworn. Towards Wu Hao.

A premonition sunk into his heart, and as the flame kept proceeding towards him that turned from mere premonition into outright knowing the worst was going to happen. Still, locked in place by fear or maybe something else, Wu Hao couldn't budge. All he could do was stare at the flame as it grew steadily closer to him, bobbing past the others like they didn't exist, and hope that it'd do the same to him. He wanted to turn, to run, but if he did, he would be killed instantly.

But when it floated in front of him, the flame stopped. He had a single frozen moment to think, Shit, and then it slammed into him. His skin was on fire, his heart was burning, and his every breath was a volcanic agony, but most of all the flame ate away at his mind. It devoured every single thought, his every impulse to try and move, until he was nothing more than a living, flaming torch.

He tried to open his mouth, failed, found that the fire had burned away even the space in his lungs to breath, his eyes were burning in his skull, he was burning burning burning - Blessed cool darkness.