Lin Page 45

hand snaps, the motion of the sword transitioning to a perpendicular angle that meets her arm just above the elbow, severing it cleanly, continuing further, into her side, and only through instinct and will does she escape what would have been a fatal blow as she twists away and falls, knife clattering to the ground. The old man has crawled to the front gate, and he is struggling to his feet, wrenching at the door, but those frail arms have no strength, and the warrior thrusts his sword forward, through the old man's back, the body, the chest, to the gate, and the tip of the sword meets the metal with a bell-like clang. The old man goes rigid, and the warrior smells shit -- yes, the bastard has relieved himself, a common reaction. The warrior pulls the sword out, taking a moment to gaze incuriously at the black bits of gore that have accumulated on the blade. The old man has


crawled away from the door, over towards a clump of bushes at the edge of the courtyard. He lays fingers on the coin-sized leaves, pulling them toward his face, trying to wipe away imagined blood. The true blood dribbles from his mouth and cakes the lipstick there.

Go ahead, he hacks. Go ahead.

The warrior stands over him. His wound just above his nose has opened up. He tosses his head angrily, and droplets rain on the old man. The old man is grinning even as his breaths grow more labored, and he licks his lips.

No!


She is upon the warrior, knife in her left hand, the blade aimed at the spot where his heart would be,