Jay Kristoff: The Last Stormdancer

Friend Koh! Keep your eyes on the battle! I cannot see without you!

An arrow sank into Jun’s leg and he cried out, the pain ripping my gaze from my Khan overhead and back to the chaos about me. I bounded into the air, sailed over the mob and landed amidst the little men with their bent sticks, filling the skies with volleys of death. And into them, we tore like a cyclone, like the thunder and lightning crashing overhead. They fled screaming, cast aside their little bows and tumbled away, a swathe cleared through them by another of my kin, falling on them as they fled. Riku’s armies were defeated, crushed beyond recovery, his Guild allies slaughtered. But if his brother fell in the battle …

Tatsuya! Where is Lord Tatsuya?

I searched for the monkey-child Khan amidst the chaos, the blood, the din. Sweeping aside one tin man with my talons, the wretch rolling away in a steaming coil of his own innards. A blast from my wings clearing a dozen spearmen as if they were green saplings, uprooted in a howling gale. And there, atop an outcropping of blood-drenched stone, we saw him. Them. The two Tiger brothers, locked together in grim struggle, the fate of their nation hanging in the balance. Katana in their hands, blades locked, sparks flying as they danced. Both of them masters, smooth as river stones, spattered in scarlet, clad in more besides.

WHO IS WHO? I CANNOT TELL.

Jun shook his head, teeth gritted.

Nor I. They are brothers from the same womb. The same hour. But fear not, friend Koh. Tatsuya cannot fall. The prophecy is true, do you see? A child of Foxes. An army of thunder tigers at his back. Today we save the nation. You and I!

BATTLE NOT OVER YET, MONKEY-CHILD.

We watched the pair clash, the carnage about us stilling to a hush. The two armies—the pitiful remnants of Riku’s forces, Tatsuya’s grim-faced butchers, even the blood-drenched members of my own pack—falling still, as there on that bloody ground, in the shadow of the sisters four, twin brothers fought for the fate of the nation. They were an even match to my eyes; neither really the other’s better. Both chests heaving. Both drenched in sweat and blood. Hands trembling on the hilts of their blades. But sooner or later, one had to fail. Sooner or later, if nothing else, fate would decide for us all.

Did I believe that now?

Had I become as he?

It was the simplest thing. Not even an error, really. But as one brother shifted his weight, stepping up onto a small outcropping to seek height’s advantage, the stone beneath him crumbled. Set him stumbling. Just an inch or two. Just a second’s span. But in that moment—a lifetime long it seemed—his twin struck, landed a splintering blow on his brother’s forearm, cleaving iron and cutting deep into the flesh and bone beneath. The wounded brother gasped in pain, stumbled back, bringing his sword up to guard in his one good hand.

I could see it in his face—cursing pitiless luck. That of all times for that stone to fail, in all the storms and floods and years, it had chosen now to split. But had it chosen? Had not all those storms and floods and years brought it to here? This moment? Had it not been meant to happen? Had that not been its fate?

The wounded brother warded off a handful more blows, katana trembling in his off-hand with every ringing blow. But at last, his twin smashed the steel aside, cut deep into his sibling’s thigh, dropping him to one knee. The wounded one held up his hand then, terror in his eyes, and though his lips did not move his eyes spoke all

wait

wait

WAIT

Yet the blow fell, splitting his throat from ear to clavicle, a gout of dark crimson, a choking, gurgling cough. The sword fell again, puncturing the iron breastplate, into his brother’s heart. And tearing loose his sword, the victor staggered back, near-retching, face drenched in salty red. Ragged breath spilling from cracked lips as he gazed at the absolute stillness about him; a thousand eyes fixed now upon him, the ruins of armies crumpled in the dust, the blood of brothers on all their hands.

“Good-bye, Riku,” he gasped.

Jun stood before Rahh, bloodied and bruised in the hush of the aftermath. Joy gleamed in those sightless eyes. Spilled from his thoughts into the gathering of thunder tigers around us.

You have done us a service we can never repay, great Khan. We are forever in your debt.

Rahh’s voice was thunder, echoing inside Jun’s head, inside mine.

* THANK KOH, MONKEY-CHILD, NOT I. *

The boy turned to me, a smile upon his face. He reached out and touched my throat, smoothed the bloodied feathers.

I suppose this is good-bye, great Koh.

NOT GOOD-BYE, MONKEY-CHILD. GUILD LINGERS. WILL NEED OUR HELP TO PURGE THEM TRUE.

Too many of your kind have fallen this day. We can ask no more of you.

THIS IS WHAT FRIENDS DO, IS IT NOT? THEY ASK.

… Friends?

I nodded.

FRIENDS .

A slow purr rumbled in Rahh’s chest.

* WHEN HAVE NEED, CALL ON US AGAIN, LITTLE JUN. WHILE I KHAN, SHIMA OUR HOME. WHILE I KHAN, WE REMAIN. WE FIGHT. *

Jun put his arms around my neck and embraced me, cheek pressed to my feathers, tears in his eyes. I wrapped him in my wings, this little monkey-child, whose thoughts in my head were now as welcome as my own. What would I be without him? Could I go back to what I was?

I looked at Rahh, his eyes shining, strong and proud and fierce.

And decided I could try.

Behind us, the Lady Ami emerged from her cave, blinking in the wounded daylight, hand held aloft to the burning sun. She drifted down the hill, surrounded by rolling smoke, a wall of swords and spears. Her eyes met little Jun’s across the thicket of steel and fur and feathers, and she smiled despite the carnage about her, the horror she so clearly wore in the face of this dreadful slaughter.

He smiled back, the ache in him spilling into me.

Foolish boy, I thought.

And there in the crowd of battered soldiers, his face crusted and daubed in the blood of his kin, stood her husband. Tatsuya, the mighty Bull of Shima, drenched to the elbows in victory, his face an ashen mask. The Lady picked her way through the bodies, holding the hem of her ruined gown. She stood before her husband, covering her fist and bowing low before him, her eyes downturned to the bloody ground.

“Shōgun,” she said.

All about her, the monkey-child soldiers did the same. Tatsuya’s bloodied victors. The broken remainder of Riku’s once-mighty legion. Bowing in unison, little Jun along with them, that same word spoken from a thousand lips.

“Shōgun.”

The Tiger Lord looked to the Lady Ami, his face grim. And as Jun’s poor heart wrenched inside his chest, Tatsuya put his arm around his bride, leaned close, and placed a bloody kiss upon her brow.

Look now in your moldy history books, monkey-child. Look now in your dusty scrolls. Read now of the glorious Kazumitsu Dynasty, and see how much those bleach-white pages speak of the Battle at Four Sisters. Do you see mention of Lotus Guild ships present there? Stormdancers? No?

Do you wonder why?

A month after the battle, a thin normality had descended on Shōgun Tatsuya’s court. His ascent onto the throne had been a gloried affair; a golden tiger mask upon his face, golden katana and wakizashi at his waist, a robe of bloody red trailing long behind him, and his wife beside it. As much pomp and ceremony as possible was mustered for the celebrations, considering the funeral arrangement that would coincide with the festivities. And in the hush thereafter, Tatsuya set about the quiet and bloody business of ensuring his dominion.