The Foreign Empress

The Ironfist and the Vermillion Thief Pt. 3

The vermillion rider, at the last moment, spins off to the side, only to appear behind me, sword at my throat. A cacophonic whirlwind of hooves heralds the arrival of yet another group of riders. Polished splint armor reflects the bright rays of the sun, blue tassels flap proudly against conical helms, Luoyang's guardsmen. And, at their head, are two familiar faces. Cold steel pressed precariously close to my throat, my eyes meet with Ma Guanxin's. Surprise, the briefest flash of concern, then cold killing fury.

My sharp-eyed assailant does not fail to notice this either, a sharp click of his tongue sends Ma Guanxin's hand off the hilt of his sword, making him as meek as a whipped dog. By now the Heizhenzu have recovered, their own jian semi-drawn, hesitant to endanger the life of their charge. My assailant pulls me closer to his body, eliminating any foolhardy ideas of a violent rescue. Two soft mounds press into my back. It's a woman? Now that I think about it, I can smell perfume. If it's a woman... A plan begins to form.

Patience is the key to weaseling your way out of sticky situations like this. Stay as a viper in the grass, calm but alert, constantly looking for the moment to strike. A rough scrape of wood against metal: Ma Chao adjusting his lance. The shuffling of cloth shoes over smooth stone: the patrons inside the tea house scrambling for safety. The snorts and neighs of horses itching to run. Finally, it happens. "Release Her Highness you traitorous knave and this lord promises his lance will deliver a quick death!" Ma Chao barks. Not yet. My kidnapper simply snickers. Ma Chao bristles, face turning beet red. Not yet. Ma Guanxin speaks next, "What do you want for the release of Her Highness?" I feel my attacker's grip loosen as she prepares to reply. Now!

My right hand seizes her sword arms as my left elbow rams into her gut. An explosive breath of air brushes past my face. As she doubles over, I grasp her sword arm with both hands, bring my left foot back, and, just like I've practiced dozens of times before, execute a perfect over the shoulder throw. Caught completely by surprise, my attacker smashes into a nearby bench, snapping it in half. I immediately leap backward as a trio of Heizhenzu agents lunge towards the downed woman, the slender points of their blades flying forward like silver snakes. Their points find—empty air? In the next instant, the agents are on the defensive, desperately batting away a veritable whirlwind of strikes for the crimson woman. In sharp contrast to the frantic defense of the three agents, the woman glides forward effortlessly, her attacks delivered with quicksilver precision.

"Useless!" Quan Linwen steps forward. Her comrades leap back, panting like dogs, sweat flowing down their faces like rain. The two women slam against each other, shadowy blackness against vibrant red. I've belittled Quan Linwen, as much as I am loathe to admit it. Quan Linwen's footwork is quick and precise, her attacks a blizzard that seek to envelop her opponent. But the woman in red is no slouch either. Her footwork is flowers and lightning, striking quickly and elegantly against some unpredictable rhythm: a dancer's steps. Her bladework is completely different, however. Wildfire. Uncontrollably destructive. Her overpowering attacks simply incinerate Linwen's blizzard and threaten to burn us all.