The Last Stormdancer (11 page)

A rain of arrows fell, Riku ordering his archers to fire into his own troops and Tatsuya’s beside. Men falling about him like flies, clutching broomstick-thick shafts protruding from throats or chests or eye sockets. Blood everywhere. On his face. In his mouth. Slicked over the stones at his feet. Stepping over broken ground and soft, broken bodies, a slush of intestines and mud. But finally Tatsuya saw him—his brother, surrounded by his men. The face he saw every time he looked into the mirror. Death all about him, inside him, the lives of innocent and loyal men—men of both sides—spilled onto this hungry ground in the name of an empty chair. His brother’s words on the day of his father’s death ringing in Tatsuya’s ears. A truth so far denying it filled him to sickening.

“Better it be just you and I, brother. Just the two of us, without the nation beside us.”

Tatsuya would have lost. He knew it then. He knew it now. His brother was ever the better swordsman.

But still, he should have listened …

“Riku!” he roared. “
Riku!
”

His brother turned to face him, eyes wide and red-rimmed. The echo of crashing sky-ships somewhere behind him. The roar of thunder tigers all about him. The Stormdancer’s voice, high above it all, his blade whistling in the air. And Tatsuya raised his katana and bellowed, charging across the broken stone, eyes narrowed to knife-cuts, intent on only one goal.

Murder.

Black and bloody murder.

*   *   *

A hailstorm of arrows about us. Jun swiping them from the air with his tiny sliver of polished steel. A shaft protruding from his shoulder, pain flowing into me. A deep gouge at my throat, just a few inches to the left of my death, my agony seeded inside him. And still we moved like a blade through water, cutting a swathe through the men and their growling swords, the stink of sickness spilling from their crumpling suits. The wingless slugs had already been ripped from the skies by my brethren. Our Khan circling above, still torn and bleeding from my grandfather’s claws, yet unwilling to let us fight without him. My thoughts drifting to him along with my eyes, my heart swelling at the sight of him. So fierce. So brave. So—

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.

“Sh
ō
gun,” 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.

“Sh
ō
gun.”

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 Sh
ō
gun 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.

As promised, the Sh
ō
gun showed clemency to Riku’s wife. The Lady Mai was permitted to dwell within a quiet corner of the Imperial Palace, her belly swelling with her dead husband’s child. First Lady Ami herself set about affairs befitting her station: the running of the Sh
ō
gun’s household, the entertaining of visiting dignitaries from the Phoenix, Dragon and Fox clans. She spent what little time she could with a pale, blind boy who lingered like a shadow at the court’s edge; ever uncertain of his place there. The boy in turn kept the company of her cats, looking out from behind those slitted eyes of green glass and seeing a world he recognized not at all.

Since Tatsuya’s ascension, Ami had seen the Sh
ō
gun only fleetingly, and from a distance. Ever surrounded by ministers and courtiers. Ever kept at cold arm’s length. Still, she struggled on. As best she could. As best she knew how. It was nearly five weeks after the Battle at Four Sisters when she heard it—the news that drained the blood from her face, set her storming through the palace halls in search of her seldom-seen husband.

After almost two hours and a dozen minders’ attempts to stave her off, she found him in meeting with his council of ministers and four representatives of the Lotus Guild. The men arrayed about a long table, crowded with tea services and sumptuous dishes, laughing and smiling, ruddy cheeks gleaming. The Guildsmen seated opposite, their glasses and plates empty, bloodred goggles fixing Lady Ami with dead-eyed stares as the herald begged forgiveness for the intrusion and announced her name to the assembly.

The bottom half of the Sh
ō
gun’s face was covered by a golden breather fashioned like a tiger’s maw—apparently intended to keep the worsening fumes at bay. A kimono red as heartsblood was draped about his shoulders, embroidered with gold tigers. A golden breastplate and matching swords completed the imperious portrait.

He raised one eyebrow, met Ami’s burning glare.

“Honorable wife? What is the meaning of this?”

“I beg forgiveness, most gracious Lord.” Ami kept the rage from her voice, her face impassive as a statue’s. “But I must speak with you on a matter most urgent.”

Ami held up a crumpled sheet of rice paper in one white-knuckled fist—an edict marked with the Imperial Seal. The assembled ministers looked to their Lord in unison. The Sh
ō
gun’s brow darkened, his voice hollow and metallic behind the mask.

“Do you not see me here in council—”

“As I say, great Lord,” Ami interrupted. “A matter most urgent.”

The Sh
ō
gun looked among his ministers, the Guildsmen. “You will excuse us, please.”

Murmured acquiescence, the hiss and whine of pistons and the whisper of silken robes as the assemblage stood as one, bowed to their Lord, their Lady, and marched slowly from the room. Ami’s eyes were fixed on Tatsuya, the beginning of tears gathering in her lashes. Rage burning inside her, refusing to let them fall. The Sh
ō
gun’s voice was tinged with impatience.

“You had best have fine reason for interrupting—”

“I do not
care
about your bloody council, Tatsuya!” Ami crumpled the paper in her fist and hurled it at her husband’s chest. “Bad enough you leave our marriage bed empty, and my belly besides. But now you shame me like this?”

Tatsuya glanced at the paper in his lap, back at his wife. “Shame you?”

“You plan to adopt Mai’s child?” Ami hissed. “Make it your heir?”

“Hai.” Tatsuya nodded. “If it is a boy. Until I have an heir of my own.”

“And how in the name of the gods do you suppose that will happen, Tatsuya?”

“I am wondering the same, beloved,” the Sh
ō
gun replied. “I hear rumor about the court you are barren. Unable to provide me with sons.”

“You have not touched me in
three years
!”

“Strange,” he mused. “I heard no mention of that amidst the whispers.”

“What did I do to you?” Ami demanded. “Ever you have spurned me, but never have you sought to so openly disgrace me. And now I find you in council with the Lotus Guild? You vowed vengeance against them! Have you forgotten they tried to murder me? Your own wife?”