The Killing Fog (The Grave Kingdom) Read online

  ALSO BY JEFF WHEELER

  The Harbinger Series

  Storm Glass

  Mirror Gate

  Iron Garland

  Prism Cloud

  Broken Veil

  The Kingfountain Series

  The Poisoner’s Enemy (prequel)

  The Maid’s War (prequel)

  The Poisoner’s Revenge (prequel)

  The Queen’s Poisoner

  The Thief’s Daughter

  The King’s Traitor

  The Hollow Crown

  The Silent Shield

  The Forsaken Throne

  The Legends of Muirwood Trilogy

  The Wretched of Muirwood

  The Blight of Muirwood

  The Scourge of Muirwood

  The Covenant of Muirwood Trilogy

  The Lost Abbey (novella)

  The Banished of Muirwood

  The Ciphers of Muirwood

  The Void of Muirwood

  Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy

  Fireblood

  Dryad-Born

  Poisonwell

  Landmoor Series

  Landmoor

  Silverkin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Jeff Wheeler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542015011

  ISBN-10: 1542015014

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  To Bingmei & Pengyu

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  GLOSSARY

  Where there is. . .

  PROLOGUE

  Be not afraid. . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Studying is like. . .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Words are powerful. . .

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  She who knows. . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  If you are. . .

  EPILOGUE

  CHARACTERS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  GLOSSARY

  Dianxue——a long-rumored skill of rendering killing/paralyzing blows by touch

  Ensign——a band of trained warriors for hire

  Jingcha——the police force in Sajinau

  Meiwood——rosewood, a hardwood used for magic and construction

  Namibu Desert——a coastal desert far to the south

  Ni-ji-jing——killer whale

  Qiangdao——roving bandits

  Qiezei——a thief, cat burglar, picklock; professional criminal

  Quonsuun——a temple, fighting school

  Xixuegui——the undead

  Where there is no history, there is no past.

  —Dawanjir proverb

  PROLOGUE

  Revenge

  Bingmei awoke in the darkness before dawn to the sound of wind. The sky was marbled with heavy clouds that hung low, obscuring the nearby mountains normally visible through the upper windows. Leaves were chased from the limbs of crooked trees and herded into the courtyard, scraping and rasping against the stone as they went. The air had the smell of ice, the portent of a storm. The season seemed to have shifted overnight, sliding toward winter. Too soon. A spike of worry pierced her chest. Her parents were still not back from their journey. An early winter meant death to anyone caught in the vast wilderness.

  Bingmei rose and ate her morning meal of fish and yarrow tea, anxious to be in the training yard. Practicing saber techniques usually tamed her fears, but as she swung the sword in the usual arcs, her eyes kept straying to the spruce limbs swaying wildly above the quonsuun’s high walls. Raindrops pattered her head, reminding her of the shift in the weather. She worked until her arms and wrists were sore, her knees aching from holding the stances so long.

  Grandfather Jiao came to watch her practice. She knew he was there because of his smell—warm bread with sugary honey drizzled on the crust. A peek revealed that he stood at the edge of the training yard, smiling indulgently as he stroked his long white beard. Her nose never lied, which was why she was unnerved to note a vinegary edge to his scent. Was it worry? Had the sudden change in the season alarmed him as well?

  After practicing for several hours, Bingmei climbed the wooden ladder within the training yard to reach the outer wall of the quonsuun. Patrolling it with a pike was Zizhu, who kept his eyes on the horizon. The interior roof was heavily curved, which helped protect the guards against the drifts of snow that would soon pummel the mountains. A fierce wind rippled his cloak, as if determined to yank him off the wall and throw him down to the gorse below.

  He turned as she walked toward him. “Get down, young miss!” he said with a scowl. “You’re light enough to blow away!”

  She hated being reminded of her size and gave him a scowl in return. “I’m not a leaf to be blown away,” she said. “What have you seen?”

  The low-hanging clouds veiled the ridges. Rumbles of thunder sounded in the distance.

  “I can’t see a thing,” Zizhu complained. “They could be hiking up the trail from the fjord, and I wouldn’t know it.”

  “It doesn’t help that you’re half-blind, Zizhu.”

  “Blind? Come closer, and I’ll rap you with my pole!”

  “You could try, Zizhu, but how would you hit me if you can’t see? You might fall and stab yourself with the pike.”

  “Another insult! You should respect your elders.”

  She gave him a grin. He smelled like chestnuts. “When you’re too old to climb the ladder, then I’ll start respecting you, Zizhu.”

  “Agh, you are cruel, young mistress.” He smirked at her, shaking his head. “Your parents named you too well!”

  Bingmei smiled. Their banter was all in good humor. Her name meant “ice rose.” It wasn’t that it suited her because her skin was so pale, although it was, or because she was beautiful, because she wasn�
�t. Her face was too big, and she was too short and skinny.

  No, Father had named her Bingmei, a rose that blooms in winter, because he wished for her to embrace her thorns.

  Her parents owned the family ensign, the security and bodyguard business her grandfather had started when he’d served the ruler of Yiwu. But boundaries between the kingdoms shifted like the winds and the river deposits.

  The banner of their ensign was a mountain leopard, which were more common in the mountains where Grandfather had grown up. Her family had a reputation for their martial skills. They were feared by the lawless groups of Qiangdao, who owed allegiance to none of the kings and who pillaged caravans or snuck into towns to rob the estates of the wealthy. Each season, emissaries climbed up the mountain to the quonsuun, seeking their help.

  As she stood on the wall, she turned her head and gazed down at her home. No one knew who’d built it. The thick stone walls and meiwood timbers were solid, and although speckled with lichen, they had defied the ravages of time and weather. While the roof tiles had been patched over the years, the curving slope did well under the onerous weight of snow. Some ancient civilization had constructed the quonsuun and many of the cities within their world. It was unknown what had become of the ancients, but their buildings had outlasted them, and so had the symbols they’d engraved in their architecture and art. Like the leopard, a creature that had come to symbolize the taming of cruelty. When her father and mother had arrived at their destination, having successfully protected the caravan they’d been hired to accompany, the leopard symbol was received with joy and gladness.

  What the sign had meant originally, no one knew. There were some creatures depicted in statuary and ornamental designs that still mystified those looking at them. Did those kinds of animals even exist anymore? Had they ever existed?

  So much of the world was a mystery to Bingmei. Where had her ancestors come from? Why were so many languages spoken throughout the kingdoms? Why was so much of the year spent in shadow, the other in light? No one understood, but the change had been attributed to the dragons of myth—the light half of the year was known as the Dragon of Dawn, the dark half as the Dragon of Night.

  Worry began to bubble up again as she sniffed the cold, sharp air. If winter came too soon, her parents wouldn’t be able to finish their journey. She didn’t want to spend the Dragon of Night without her parents, trapped in the quonsuun without news of their adventures.

  The rain began to fall in earnest then, striking at Bingmei and Zizhu viciously as the skies began to seethe.

  “Have you seen any sign of the fog?” Bingmei asked worriedly, wiping a drop that had landed on her nose.

  “No, young miss. Try not to worry. They’ll be back. I thought I heard a noise in the distance. I know it must be them.”

  “Shout when you see them coming,” Bingmei ordered.

  He frowned at her. “I am Zizhu, a free man! You cannot order me about, little miss! You are only ten years old.”

  “I’m twelve! Now promise me you’ll shout, or I’ll throw stones at you from down below!”

  “If I thought you could hit me, I’d be worried,” he said. “Now get out of the rain before your petals fall off.”

  She bounded back to the ladder, glancing into the distance one last time, but her view was impeded by layers of storm clouds. A shiver ran down her back.

  The storm made practicing in the training yard unpleasant, so Bingmei worked on her fist techniques within the quonsuun itself. It smelled like spoiling fruit, but she burned incense to banish the stench. Only Bingmei could smell it, but a feeling of unease hung in the air, which had everyone agitated.

  Grandfather didn’t seek her out, but she saw glimpses of him on and off throughout the day. Pacing. Watching the walls and the storm raging outside, his hands clasped behind his back. It was unlike him to brood, which only heightened Bingmei’s sense of dread. Servants splashed through the courtyard as they ran for cover between their duties. The quonsuun housed twelve servants, but most of the living quarters were vacant since the bulk of the warriors had gone on the mission with her parents, leaving Zizhu and seven others to guard it in their absence.

  After the storm ended, late in the afternoon, Zizhu called down from his post on the wall, his cloak hanging heavily on him, drenched with rain. “They’re coming! They’re coming! I see the ensign!”

  Bingmei ran out to the courtyard, nearly slipping on the wet stone tiles in her eagerness. Water dripped from the edges of the roof, pattering noisily down the drainage chains. None of the lamps had been lit yet, for fear they’d be extinguished in the storm, but they would be. She saw Grandfather emerge from the quonsuun, a relieved smile on his face. A delicious smell accompanied him.

  Perhaps all would be well after all. Perhaps she’d worried for nothing.

  “You see them, Zizhu?” Bingmei called up. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not blind, no matter what you think!” he shouted back. “They’re not far off. Unbar the doors.”

  Servants of the quonsuun were suddenly rushing around. Some scampered up rickety ladders, beginning to hang the lit lamps from the iron stays. Others rushed forward and raised the heavy crossbar holding the door closed.

  Bingmei hurried forward, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement.

  As the servants set the crossbar down and began pulling the heavy doors open, the smell of fresh rain-soaked grass filled the courtyard. She saw the group marching toward the gate wearily, heads bent low against the weather. No doubt they’d marched through the storm to get there by dusk. They would be tired, surely, but she hoped Mother and Father would have enough energy to tell her and Grandfather stories of their journey. Just a few minutes and they’d be home.

  Then the wind shifted, bringing the smell of the group rushing to her. The smell of rancid tubers afflicted her, making her eyes water. The overpowering stench made her step back, gagging.

  This was not the smell of her parents. It was a death smell.

  Bingmei’s heart pounded fast as she stared out into the gloom of the failing light. She recognized the family banner, the depiction of the leopard. But her nose could not be deceived.

  The pretenders had her parents’ leopard banner. What did that mean?

  “Shut the door,” she said in a strangled voice, shaking her head.

  Grandfather arrived next to her, hands clasped behind his back. “What’s wrong, Granddaughter?”

  Bingmei covered her mouth and groaned. “It’s not them,” she said, shaking her head, wanting to banish the horrid stench. “It’s a trick. It’s not them! Close the doors.”

  “Do as she says,” Grandfather commanded.

  The servants, looking worried, began to push against the doors.

  There was a clattering noise, startling them, then a crash as Zizhu landed in the courtyard next to her. His pike had fallen first, the noise jarring everyone. One of the servants screamed. Zizhu tried to lift his head, his eyes dazed in pain and surprise, but Bingmei saw the arrow protruding from his chest. He slumped back, his chest falling still.

  The servants shoved hard at the doors. Bingmei went to help as the group outside charged toward them. Shouts and yells from outside added to the confusion. The servants managed to wrestle the doors shut and were fumbling with the crossbar when something heavy smashed into the wood from the other side, knocking them back. One of the doors inched open, preventing the crossbar from fitting into the cradle. The smell that came through the gap made Bingmei want to vomit. A flash of metal, a saber, cut through the gap—and through one of the servants holding the beam. He cried out in pain and dropped his end.

  They had lost the protection of the walls.

  Grandfather looked at Bingmei. “Get my saber and the cricket!” he said, his face contorting with emotion, his cheeks twitching with barely suppressed rage. Bingmei vaulted from her position, rushing back into the quonsuun like the wind. She heard voices, shouts. The few remaining guards came rushing past Bingmei to d
efend the compound.

  Panic urged her on. The smell filling the courtyard was horrible, but she sprinted to her grandfather’s room. His saber was suspended on the wall, the meiwood hilt capped in gold. The saber, a relic of the forgotten past, had seen many years of duty.

  She pulled it down and then found the little box that contained his wooden cricket. It, too, was made of meiwood, and she knew it was magic. Artifacts like this were as coveted as they were dangerous. But her grandfather had let her play with the cricket before. She knew how to invoke its power. Perhaps this was what the Qiangdao were after. She had no doubt that these were some of the infamous brigands who roamed the world seeking prey and ill-gotten gains. Why would they dare attack a quonsuun? She took the box and stuffed it into her pocket, then grabbed the saber and hurtled back toward the training yard.

  Voices. Threats. Laughter.

  “You’ve returned at last, Muxidi?” rasped Grandfather Jiao.

  “Only to bring you their heads, old man,” said the leader of the Qiangdao. Bingmei arrived just as a leather sack, bulging and dripping, was flung at her grandfather’s feet. It brought a whiff of a smell. A smell she recognized as her parents, mixed with the stench of death.

  No!

  She stared at the bag in shock, unable to believe what she was witnessing. The guards who had passed her moments before lay sprawled on the ground, some still twitching as they died, others motionless. A band of ten Qiangdao stood in the area, wearing the thick leathers and hides favored by the thieves. There were no colors in their clothes, no fashion. They smelled like rotting flesh.

  “Your ensign is ended!” shouted the leader to her grandfather’s face. “You killed my grandfather. So now I take my revenge on you and on your seed. Die, old man!”

  Bingmei, still frozen, watched as the leader brought up his saber to strike off her grandfather’s head. She still gripped his weapon in her hand, her body too frightened to move.

  The killing blow came, but her grandfather ducked at the last moment. With a blur of his fists, he struck at the leader, knocking him down to the wet stone tiles. He was old, but he was not powerless. Two of the bandits yelled and attacked him. Grandfather twisted, evading a thrust, and struck back. He took down one of them and kicked the other in the knee. The crack of breaking bone snapped Bingmei out of her haze.