Butterfly Swords. Jeannie Lin

collapse of the old regime. Against his better judgement, he lifted his head and for the barest second, forgot that he was stranded and that he was starving.

      Her eyes widened as she met his gaze. Hazel eyes, like the turning of autumn leaves. How anyone could mistake her for a man was beyond his understanding.

      Now that she had seen who he was, he assumed she would recoil in fear or disgust or, even worse, pity. Instead she regarded him with curious interest. Next to kindness, it was the last reaction he expected.

      ‘Xiè xie.’ He mumbled his thanks as he took the food from her slack fingers. Any words he knew would be inadequate for this moment.

      She nodded wordlessly and backed away, still staring. Only when she had returned to her companions did she take her eyes off him. By then the rice had gone cold. He gulped it down in three swallows and set the bowl on the ground before pausing to steal a final glance.

      Inside the hut, the group finished their meal with little conversation and tossed a scatter of copper coins onto the table. A sense of desolation fell over him when she turned to go, but she did look back. He nodded once in farewell. They were both in hiding, after all—he in the shadows and the woman behind her disguise.

      Once she disappeared down the road, he scarcely had time to straighten before the old man returned with his club and his viper tongue. Ryam presented his back to the stream of insults.

      He trudged westwards, as he had done for the last month. The last remnants of their legion remained in the marshlands outside the north-western border. Perhaps he would no longer be welcome, but he had no other place to go.

      Five years ago, they had fought their way across the silk routes to end up at the edge of the Tang Empire. The Emperor had tolerated their presence, but Ryam’s last blunder had likely destroyed any hope of a continued truce.

      A hundred paces from the tavern and his feet began to drag. He swayed, caught off guard by the lurch in his step. A tingling snsation stole to his fingertips and toes. This feeling was all too familiar. Heavy headed, off balance, tongue thick in his mouth.

      He was drunk.

      Not drunk, drugged. The little beauty had drugged him and then abandoned him …. But that didn’t make any sense. Cursing, he shook his head to clear the fog in his skull. Thinking was becoming an even harder task than moving.

      The woman had given him her food … which meant the drug was meant for her.

      He reached for his sword, then froze with his fingers clenched over the hilt. This was the sort of impulse that had almost got him killed. His head spun with whatever they had slipped into the rice. He grappled with the odds. He was an outsider. He knew nothing about her or her bodyguards.

      But those startling eyes had looked at him as if he was something more than an animal.

       To hell with it.

      Lifting one leaden foot after another, he forced himself around and drew his sword, lumbering back towards the tavern. The old proprietor shrieked when he saw him. The stack of bowls he carried crashed to the ground as the man scrambled for cover. Ryam ran past him and continued on the road.

      He heard shouting in the distance and tore through the undergrowth in pursuit of it. Branches snapped against him, scraping over his arms and face. He stumbled into a clearing and everything slammed into his head at once: the pound of footsteps and the flash of steel. A dozen bandits armed with knives surrounded the swordsmen from the tavern. Ryam blinked through the haze clouding his eyes and searched for the girl.

      She stood her ground at the centre of the swarm, wielding a blade in each hand. The swords flew in a whirl of motion. Rushing forwards, Ryam slammed his shoulder into one of her opponents and then struck the hilt of his sword against the man’s skull. The bandit crumbled to the ground.

      One down. With an air of satisfaction, he swung to face her, grasping at the proper words. ‘I’m a friend—’

      Her boot slammed neatly into his groin.

      Pain exploded through his entire body. Nauseatingly bad pain. He should have left her to the wolves.

      Without mercy, she came at him with the swords while he was doubled over. He hefted his blade up and parried once and then again. God’s feet, she was fast. He shoved her aside roughly. His body begged to sink to the dirt.

      ‘Here to help,’ he ground out.

      Her arm stopped mid-strike as she focused on him. Another one of her companions collapsed as the drugs took effect and the bandits circled closer. She swung around, swords raised to face the next attack.

      The battle continued for him in bits and pieces. He struck out again and once again he connected. In minutes he would be useless. He grabbed the woman’s arm.

      ‘Too many,’ he forced out.

      She hesitated, scanning the field before going with him. More bandits gave chase, but he drove them back with a wild swing of his blade. Then he was running. Tall grass whipped at him while his world tilted, strangely yellow and dark at the edges. He blinked and when he opened his eyes the surroundings were unfamiliar. The woman had pulled ahead and she was shouting something at him. He stumbled and the next thing he knew was the smack of solid earth against his chin.

      The muddled taste of blood and dirt seeped into his mouth. Spitting, he rolled himself over, his arms and legs dragging. He could no longer feel them. He could no longer feel anything.

      The swordswoman hovered over him, her lips moving soundlessly. He fought against the blackness that seduced his eyelids downwards, but the ground felt really, really good.

      Unable to resist any longer, he let his eyes close. He hoped he’d have a chance to open them again.

      The foreigner lay on his back, denting the wild grass while his breath rumbled deep in his chest. Taking hold of one shoulder, Ai Li shook him as hard as she could.

      The man was built like a mountain.

      With a sigh, she looked back at the line of the trees, head tilted to listen. No footsteps. No one chasing after them. The dense undergrowth provided cover, but if they found her she was lost. She did not know who the attackers were, but she hoped they were merely outlaws. She prayed they weren’t men sent to take her back to Li Tao.

      The men could be tracking her through the trees, but she couldn’t abandon the barbarian while he was helpless. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she turned back to him. At first glimpse, his pale skin and sandy hair had shocked her. When he spoke her language, she had fled like a superstitious peasant, but up close he was no ghost or demon. Just a man. A wild-looking, possibly crazed man who had saved her.

      He slept lion-like in the grass. A tawny growth of stubble roughened his jaw, making him appear as if his face was chiselled out of stone and left unpolished. Emboldened by his slumber, she reached out to push away a lock of hair to get a better look. Her fingertips grazed the edge of a scar above his ear. She recoiled and looked once more to assure herself that he was asleep. Then, with morbid fascination, she traced the line of the old wound.

      When she first noticed him skulking by the roadside, her heart had gone out to him. Here was one of the unfortunate souls forced to wander after the recent rebellions. Now she knew he was the sort of man who could rush into the thick of battle without a trace of fear.

      His hand remained curved about the hilt of his sword. A Web of nicks and dents scored the blade. Her father would have called this a sword with a past, one that deserved respect. With her brothers and the men under her father’s command, she had been around warriors all her life. A fearsome swordsman like this would have to be desperate to beg for food like a peasant.

      He had come to her rescue despite his troubles. To leave him now would be dishonourable, no matter that he was a barbarian. Picking up her swords, she rose to stand guard. Her ancestors would expect no less of her. Even Fourth Brother’s spirit would understand.

      She twirled the blades restlessly, trying to attune herself to the rustle of the leaves