Faced with a semi-circle of determined-looking farmers wielding a fearsome array of agricultural implements, I did the only sensible thing a former soldier could do.

  I burst out laughing.

  The leader, a stout man whose grip on his hoe suggested he was more familiar with weeding than warfare, turned a dangerous shade of beet red. “What’re you laughin’ at?” he demanded, his voice a gruff bark that was clearly local to these mountains.

  I gestured with my open hands towards my companions, two nuns and a lady, a picture of innocence. “Brother, I’d understand if you thought I was a raider,” I said, “But a pair of nuns and a young lady? Are they going to lecture your village into submission? Maybe threaten you with poorly recited poetry?”

  In fairness, they could do far more. But the odds of them being skilled martial artists were generally poor.

  The semicircle of farmers around us visibly relaxed. A few men lowered their sickles, and I saw one lean on his shovel, a sheepish grin on his face. Their leader, however, was not so easily swayed.

  “Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ ‘em from bein’ raiders!” he retorted, his accent thick and stubborn. “Why can’t a nun be a raider? Best cover there is, I reckon!”

  “Indeed, you are right to be cautious, brother,” I said, deciding a bit of formal flattery was in order. I brought my fist to my palm in a proper salute and gave a slow, deliberate bow, rotating as I did so that the gesture was not just for the leader, but for his entire nervous-looking militia.

  “I am Cui BoFeng,” I announced clearly. “These are the honorable Shītài, Jìngxī and Língzhú, of the Spirit Stone Temple. We’re just travelers, lookin’ for a blacksmith to fix our gear for self-protection.” I held up the splintered shaft of my spear. The fact that none of them reacted to my name told me how rural an area we had found ourself.

  “And you are…?” The leader directed his question to the maiden, who had remained silent and still at my side. She glanced at me for a fraction of a second, and I gave a nod.

  “This woman’s surname is Chen,” she replied, her voice cool and clear. My suspicions were finally confirmed. For all her talk of her father, she’d never actually claimed his name for herself until now.

  “I’m a deserter,” I explained sincerely, bowing a little deeper to sell the story. “Got a life debt to Lady Chen here, so I’m seein’ her safe to her family up north.”

  “Nicest deserter I ever did see,” one of the younger farmers remarked from the side, earning a sharp glare from his leader. But I could see that their weapons were no longer held at the ready. The tension had broken.

  The lead farmer finally returned my bow, his posture stiff with the last vestiges of his suspicion. “Well… seein’ as you’re not here to rob us,” he said, his voice gruff, “I suppose you can come in. Welcome to QingTian Village.”

  The farmer, our self-appointed militia commander, introduced himself as Deng Yuan as he led us down the path. "I'm the Lǐzhèng," he said, the title sittin' on his shoulders like a heavy yoke. "The headman 'round here." He looked to be in his thirties, but the lines of worry etched around his eyes and the premature grey in his beard made it hard to be sure. The mountain sun and a life of hard labor had weathered him beyond his years.

  As we walked, Língzhú, ever the pragmatist, produced one of those strange "pencils" from her sleeve. She grabbed another farmer by the arm, a younger man who went rigid with surprise at her forwardness. "Brother, does this stream have a name? And that hill over there, how steep is the western face?" she asked, her pencil already flying across the map. The poor man stammered out answers, clearly uncomfortable but too intimidated to refuse.

  Jìngxī and Lady Chen, meanwhile, fell into a natural rearguard position, their gazes constantly scanning the surrounding hills, their hands never straying far from their swords. I caught Lady Chen glancing my way once or twice.

  "You lads put up a brave front," I said to Deng Yuan, trying to keep my tone light. "But why the farming tools? I'd have expected to see some proper spears and shields. Your Fubing equipment should be in the village armory, no?"

  Deng Yuan let out a bitter snort. "Fubing? Hah! Ain't been a man from this village called for that duty in my lifetime. We're too far off the main road. The Xiànchéng," he spat the name for the county town, "don't care enough to collect us for service, so they sure ain't gonna send us gear." He kicked at a loose stone on the path. "Heard there's a war on, but that's a problem for towns big enough to have walls. We're on our own out here." He seemed to find some grim satisfaction in that, a man happy not to be called to a battle he didn't believe in.

  "You're a young man to be carryin' the weight of a Lǐzhèng," I remarked as we entered the village proper.

  He let out a long, weary sigh. "Wasn't my choice. My uncle was the headman before me. Went to the county town a few months back to argue about taxes. Never came back." He shook his head. "Uncle never wanted this for me. Said it was a lot of work for no pay. But..." he shrugged, a gesture of helpless resignation, "I'm the only one in the village who can read a bit. Wasn't really no other choice."

  I didn't know what to say to that. The cruelty of the world had a way of heaping responsibility on those least equipped to bear it. I placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. He seemed to stand a little taller under the simple gesture.

  "You're doing a great job," I told him, and I meant it. "And let me tell you a secret, so you don't feel like a fool." I leaned in conspiratorially. "Those nuns? They're serious martial arts masters. You were right to be cautious when we first met. Not many men could have stood their ground like you did."

  A slow, proud grin spread across his face, chasing away some of the weariness. "Knew it," he muttered, immensely pleased with himself. "I could tell they weren't just regular nuns."

  The village itself was a marvel of practical engineering. About a hundred households were spread across the hills overlooking a wide, flat plateau, which was clearly used for farming in the warmer months. Here there were no wooden huts or plaster houses. The villagers lived in yāodòng, cave dwellings dug directly into the loess hills, their entrances framed with sturdy brick facades. It was a community carved from the earth itself, warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Língzhú had a hard time reconciling this with her map. "It just says 'buildings,'" she complained quietly, tapping the symbol with her pencil. "There's no marker for 'cave home.' I'll have a word with that map-maker next time I see him."

  We were invited into Deng Yuan's home. He led us through a brick archway into a surprisingly spacious and warm interior. A woman, her belly swollen, bowed shyly as we entered and began ladling steaming noodles into bowls.

  "My wife, Chunhua," Deng said, a note of simple pride in his voice.

  We sat around a rough-hewn wooden table as she placed a bowl before each of us, along with a small dish of sour pickled vegetables. "It ain't much," Deng apologized, looking down at the simple meal. "Harvest was good this year. But we had to pay the taxes twice. Once for the Great Tang, and once for the Great Yan." He sighed, picking up his chopsticks. "Both of 'em got swords. Got no choice but to pay."

  We ate gratefully. Deng Yuan's home was built around a large central hearth, and we took the opportunity to air out our heavy overcoats, hanging them on hooks near the fire. Jìngxī showed Lady Chen how to carefully remove the braided straw from our boots. "You gotta dry both," she instructed, "The straw and the boots. If you don't, the damp will rot the leather and give you sores on your feet."

  As soon as I finished my noodles, I gathered up our damaged weapons. "Deng Yuan," I said, "if you'd be so kind as to take me to your village blacksmith, I'd appreciate it." Lady Chen still had her dark steel sword, so we weren't entirely unarmed, but I felt ill at ease without a proper weapon in my own hands.

  "Of course, Mister Cui," he said, rising from the table. "Old Iron Wang's forge is just down the way."

  The walk was short, but Deng Yuan's easy-going demeanor from before was gone, replaced by a quiet anxiety. "Mister Cui," he began, his voice a low, worried murmur, "I didn't want to say nothin' in front of my wife, with the baby comin' and all..." He took a deep breath. "A few days ago, a rider came through. A raider scout, no doubt. Said his boss would be comin' by in three days. Said we'd best have a proper 'offering' ready for 'em when they got here." He kicked at a loose stone. "Today's the third day."

  He stopped and turned to face me, his expression a mixture of desperation and hesitant hope. "Mister Cui," he said, the words coming out in a rush, "you and your ladies... you're fightin' folks. I know you're just passin' through, but... if you could help us... well, we ain't got much, but the village'd cover the cost of fixin' your gear. And we could spare some grain for your journey. Whatever you need."

  I looked at him, at the simple, earnest plea in his eyes, and a decision formed with an easy certainty. Three skilled practitioners against a band of provincial thugs. It was hardly a fair fight. "Don't worry, Lǐzhèng," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll take care of it."

  His relief was so profound it was a physical thing, the tension draining from his shoulders. He led me to the blacksmith's forge, a soot-stained cave entrance from which the rhythmic clang of a hammer echoed. Inside, a wiry old man with arms like knotted ropes looked up from his anvil, his face streaked with grime. This was Old Iron Wang.

  He took our weapons, inspecting each in turn with a critical eye. He ran a calloused thumb over the chips on the nuns' blades. "What've you ladies been doin' with these?" he grumbled, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Tryin' to chop stones?"

  He then picked up my spearhead. My eyes lit up as I saw a flash of recognition in his. "Ah, an official piece. Haven't seen one of these in a dog's age." He noted the deep, threaded grooves at its base. "Right then. Simple enough." He disappeared into the back of his forge and returned a moment later with a long, straight shaft of pale white wax wood, its end threaded to match. "From the old village armory," he explained, screwing the head on with a few deft turns. "Been sittin' back there gatherin' dust for twenty years. Might as well put it to use." The spear felt good in my hands, solid and perfectly balanced. I gave it a spin and a jab, letting the red tasels flutter as the tip seemed to leave instances of itself behind. It felt like a piece of me that had been missing had been found again.

  I was just admiring Old Wang's handiwork when a man burst into the forge, his face pale and slick with sweat. It was the young farmer Língzhú had been interrogating earlier.

  "Lǐzhèng!" he gasped, stumbling to a halt and bracing his hands on his knees. "The bandits... they're here! At the west path!" He took another ragged breath. "I went to your house first, but your wife said you was here..."

  "How many?"

  "A dozen, maybe more! Some on horseback!"

  The three of us didn't waste another second. We ran out of the forge and down the main path toward the village's western entrance. As we rounded the last bend, I saw that Lady Chen and the two nuns were already there. They stood in a calm, steady line, Lady Chen with her sword drawn. Behind them, Deng Yuan's dozen farmers had formed a shaky semicircle, their hoes and wood axes held at the ready. Their knuckles were white, but they were holding their ground.

  Ahead of them, blocking the narrow path, were twelve raiders. They were a rough-looking crew, a mix of hardened thugs and men who wore the tattered remnants of military uniforms. Deserters. Their leader was a tall, grizzled veteran with a nasty scar that puckered the skin around a dead, milky-white eye. His one good eye, however, was sharp and cruel as it scanned our meager defenses with a practiced gaze.

  Then I saw it, and my heart almost stopped.

  One of the raiders, a shorter man with a wild look in his eyes, was cradling in his arms was a weapon I knew all too well. Three black iron tubes, bound together and mounted on a heavy wooden pole. The three pitch-black holes yawned at us menacingly, promising a sudden, terrible thunder.

  It was one of Zhang RuLin's thunder weapons.