Stormdancer

by Jay Kristoff

  The slap on her cheek.

  The hiss through gritted teeth.

  “I hate you.”

  She had meant it. Every word. And yet the thought of him lying bleeding in the wreckage of the lifeboat, of never seeing him again … it was almost more than she could bear. Her muscles burned, lungs aching with each breath, and she stumbled and fell into the muck, too tired to plant one foot in front of the other. The arashitora watched her trying to stand, her fingers curled into claws, chest heaving.

  YOU ARE WELL?

  No, I’m not well. It’s pouring with rain and I’m so tired I can barely walk.

  He eyed her up and down with disdain.

  WEAK.

  We need to find shelter. Somewhere I can start a fire. We’re far enough away from the dark temple now.

  WOOD WET. WILL NOT BURN.

  Somewhere out of the wind, at least.

  The beast snorted, flexed his wings. He stared for a long moment, wide pupils reflecting the arcs of lightning stretching overhead. She could feel the heat inside him, the warmth of the blood in his veins, pulsing beneath a layer of thick, soggy fur.

  He nodded up the rise, pawing at the ground.

  THERE.

  Yukiko looked up, saw the dark shadow of a cave mouth set in the mountainside.

  They scrambled up the slope, loose stones and mud, clawing branches and thorns. The cave entrance was a black pit in the stone, perhaps eight feet across, opening out into a deep circular depression in the mountain’s flank. The thunder tiger sniffed the air, sensed no predator save small furry things too feeble to bother them. And so he squeezed inside and stretched out along one wall, facing outward and watching the lightning dance among the treetops.

  Yukiko curled up against the opposite wall, damp clothes clinging to her skin like a rime of morning frost. Clawing the wet hair from her eyes, she hugged herself and sank down to embrace her misery. She felt the cold more keenly once she stopped moving, and the shakes soon grew so fierce that she was forced to lie on the floor, back pressed against the stone, every muscle a knot of pain. Dry twigs and leaves were scattered around the cave, but her hands were trembling so badly that she couldn’t have started a fire even if she had the flint.

  The arashitora stared out at the storm for almost an hour, motionless and unblinking. Occasionally, he would glance over at her and watch her curled in her miserable little knot, shivering uncontrollably. Then his wings would twitch, and he would scrape his talons across the stone and turn his gaze back to the clouds. Yukiko closed her eyes and gritted her teeth to stop them chattering.

  At last, he drew one great, deep breath and sighed; a bellow that sent the dry leaves skittering across the cave floor. Yukiko watched as he wordlessly lifted his wing, inviting her closer. She blinked and stared for a long moment, meeting the even gaze of those bottomless eyes. Crawling across the stone, she snuggled down beside him, wrapped in the tremendous heat radiating from his body. He folded his wing about her, a blanket of down and sweet warmth tinged with the scent of lightning, the smell of blood. She could hear his heartbeat beneath inches of pale, velvet fur.

  Thank you, Buruu.

  QUIET NOW, MONKEY-CHILD. DREAM.

  Sleep came at last, as deep and complete as any she had known. She lay motionless, a soft smile on her face, and dreamed of a little bamboo valley, sweating beneath a summer sun.

  * * *

  The rabbits were plump and juicy, Buruu’s gorge swelling as he threw his head back and swallowed them whole: fur, bones and all. Yukiko poked at the fire and watched the small haunch sizzle, fat spitting among the embers. Her stomach growled; the mushrooms she’d lived on for the past few days were nourishing, but hardly enough.

  Buruu was stretched out beside the flames along the rock wall, firelight gleaming in his eyes. Woodsmoke drifted out into the evening chill, up into the pouring rain. The rabbits had been hard won; a day’s patience in the downpour, hovering above the snares until her muscles ached. But the smell of the roasting meat made it all worthwhile.

  Buruu had slept while she caught their dinner, the beast stretched out above one of the snares in a maidenhead tree. He had woken twice during the day, once to tell her to hurry up, the second to pounce unsuccessfully on a small hare nosing about the trap below him. After his failure, he’d mustered a little more patience, and when she returned with half a dozen fat rabbits slung over her shoulder, he’d discovered his civility.

  Now, she looked at Buruu across the roasting meat, flames sparkling in her pupils. During the drama on the Thunder Child, the shock of the last few days, she’d not really had the opportunity to study him as well as she would have liked. But at last, here in the flickering warmth, with dry skin and the promise of a full belly, she found herself transfixed. Simply amazed to be in the presence of a creature so beautiful.

  The flames lent the pale, sleek feathers on his head and chest a strange sheen; a luminosity that was almost metallic. His shoulders were broad, thick with muscle, and the feathers there rose like hackles on a hound when he grew angry. The patterns of black in the snow-white fur on his hindquarters were like words, written in some savage tongue she couldn’t quite comprehend. Strangely enough, it was his tail, not his face, that was the most expressive part of his body. It moved in long, lazy arcs when he was content, lashed from side to side like a bullwhip when he was enraged, hung poised and slightly curled when he was stalking through the dark. Though he was half eagle, she’d noticed he moved mostly like a big cat: lithe and sinuous, an undercurrent of cunning in every fluid motion.

  “We have enough food to start moving.” Her voice skipped across rough stone walls. “We can strike out for the cliff tomorrow. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to see where we are once we get to the top.”

  He blinked at her, saying nothing. She realized that he couldn’t understand her when she spoke aloud; her voice was a series of squeals and barks in his ears. She repeated the sentence into his mind, the liquidity of thought overcoming the barrier of flesh and bone between them.

  When we climb the cliff tomorrow, we should be able to see where we are.

  WE ARE HERE. WHAT ELSE MATTERS?

  Yukiko took a few moments to answer.

  I need to get home.

  He snorted, preening his crippled wings with the elegant hook of his beak. Its tip was white like his fur, running through gray into a deep black encircling his eyes. The cool breeze rustled the feathers of his brow.

  DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOU MONKEYS.

  Meaning what?

  THIS IS GOOD PLACE. FOOD HERE. WARM. DRY. SAFE. WHY DO YOU RUSH BACK TO YOUR SCAB?

  My father. My friends. They could be dead for all I know. If they got away, they’d head back to Kigen. I need to find out if they’re all right.

  YOUR PACK.

  The beast nodded, the gesture all too human.

  PACK I UNDERSTAND.

  Where is yours?

  … NORTH. AMONG THE STORMS.

  His eyes gleamed, honey shot through with shards of molten silver.

  Why did you come here?

  TO SEE WHAT YOU HAD DONE. THE OLD ONES WARNED ME. SAID THERE WAS NO LIFE LEFT IN SHIMA. DID NOT LISTEN. FOOLISH.

  I don’t listen to my father either.

  Yukiko smiled.

  THE ONE WHO MAIMED ME.

  Her smile died, and she was surprised to find herself leaping to Masaru’s defense.

  He’s a good man. He was only doing what he was commanded.

  COMMANDED BY WHO?

  The Shōgun. The leader of Shima.

  DESPOILER LORD COMMANDED YOU HUNT ME. WHY?

  He wanted you for himself. To ride you, like the Stormdancers in the old tales.

  NO MAN WILL RIDE ME. THAT GIFT IS EARNED. YOUR RACE IS NO LONGER WORTHY. ARASHITORA DESPISE YOU.

  Not all of us are evil.

  LOOK AROUND. GAME DEAD, RIVERS BLACK, LAND CHOKED WITH WEED. SKIES BLEEDING, RED AS BLOOD. FOR WHAT?

  I don’t—

  YOUR KIND ARE
BLIND. YOU SEE ONLY THE NOW, NEVER THE WILL BE.

  Buruu glared, the embers setting his eyes aglow.

  BUT SOON YOU WILL. WHEN ALL IS GONE, WHEN THERE ARE SO MANY MONKEY-CHILDREN THAT YOU MURDER FOR A SCRAP OF LAND, A DROP OF CLEAN WATER, THEN YOU WILL SEE.

  Yukiko pictured the recruitment posters slapped over the walls of Kigen city, the factories churning out weapons for the war machine, the constant updates about the gaijin conflict streaming across the wireless.

  It’s already happening, she realized.

  AFTER THE LAST FISH IS CAUGHT. AFTER THE LAST RIVER POISONED. THEN YOU WILL KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. AND BY THEN IT WILL BE TOO LATE.

  The arashitora shook his head, began sharpening his claws against the stone floor; iron-hard curves against sparkling granite. Yukiko found it hard to argue with him. Her mind had swum with uneasy questions for years, born in the gaudy opulence of the Shōgun’s court, festering in the crowded streets beneath Kigen’s poisoned sky. But even if Buruu was right, what could one person do about it? The world was so big. How could one girl make a difference? She could spend her whole life shouting from the rooftops, and nobody would listen. A common man doesn’t care about dying birds or changing weather. He cares only for the food on his family’s table, the clothes on his children’s backs.

  Are we any different? These rabbits died to feed our hunger. We killed them because we think our lives are more important than theirs.

  She thought of her father, the blood of a hundred beasts on his hands. For all his faults, she knew if Masaru had to pollute a thousand rivers, exterminate a thousand species to keep her safe, he would. Realization struck, a grubby bulb turning on in her head and shining light in a dusty corner she’d always ignored.

  She was all he had left.

  Everything he had done, he’d done for her. The months away from home. The move to Kigen. The hunt. Clipping Buruu’s wings.

  “One day you will understand, Yukiko. One day you will see that we must sometimes sacrifice for the sake of something greater.”

  She frowned, pushing the tears down into the tips of her toes.

  He hadn’t been talking about the Empire, or his honor.

  He was talking about me.

  Buruu stared, saying nothing. He stretched out along the floor, lifted his wing to offer shelter, but she remained motionless. With something approaching a shrug, he nestled his head beneath his shoulder, closed his eyes and sighed.

  She stayed awake and watched the fire burn.

  * * *

  Humid days followed chilled nights, rain dripping from the howling skies, heat trapped beneath the ceiling of green. Sweat ran off her body, soaking through sodden clothing, turning cotton to damp, stinking weight. The slope was ragged and steep beneath them. Buruu struggled worse than she did in some places, shale and mud sliding away beneath his weight. He would slip and stumble, flapping his near-useless wings to regain balance, and curse the children of men, calling down the wrath of his father on those who had mutilated him.

  Yukiko would hang her head and say nothing.

  It was near midday when they reached the crest. The granite crags looked as if they’d been beheaded by Hachiman himself; cleft flat by the War God’s blade. Yukiko climbed a thick copse of ancient cherry trees to get a better view. Her goggles had been lost somewhere during the crash and, even hidden behind the clouds, the sun’s glare made her wince as she poked her head through the canopy. Behind them, she could see the black scar across the mountain where the Thunder Child had met its end, and she wondered for a brief moment if it would be worth trying to salvage anything from the wreckage. The thought of having to trek back past the Dark Mother’s temple quickly put her musings to rest.

  The plateau stretched for miles ahead, clad in rich summer green, spotted with crimson wild azaleas and muted slashes of dandelion gold. The storm clouds threw a shadow over everything. The forest grew thick again further south, and it seemed a long, harsh trek back toward civilization. She hoped the lifeboat and her friends had cleared the mountains intact.

  Touching her brow, her lips, she whispered to the skies above.

  “Susano-ō, deliver them safely. Lord Izanagi, Great Maker, hold them close.”

  They shared the last of the smoked rabbit, Yukiko having only a mouthful of meat and a stray mushroom, washed down with wonderfully clear water from a small stream. She suggested they should follow the flow, perhaps stumble across a river where they could fish. Buruu’s stomach growled at the mention of the word, and he purred assent.

  It was near dark when they found the snare. Buruu caught blood-scent on the air and fell still as stone. She touched her fox tattoo for luck and crept forward in the deepening twilight, rain masking her footfalls on the leaves. There was a fresh hock of raw flesh dangling above a concealed net: an unwary carnivore pulling at the meat would set off the snare and find itself dangling high above the ground. She disarmed the device by cutting the counterweight free and brought the meat back to Buruu. The arashitora crunched it down in three mouthfuls, barely pausing to breathe between each bite.

  Maybe the oni set the traps?

  SNARES ARE THE WORK OF MEN.

  I didn’t think anyone dwelt in the Iishi Mountains. Not even the Kitsune clan.

  WRONG, OBVIOUSLY.

  They might have more traps about. Watch your step.

  The arashitora eyed the contraption with contempt as they moved past. The net was made of old vines, twisted and knotted tight; he could shred it as easily as a child tearing a piece of damp rice-paper.

  He snorted in derision.

  THEY SHOULD WATCH THEIRS.

  * * *

  They slept in the trees that night, thirty feet above ground, splayed among an intertwining cradle of maple branches. Buruu had proved an adept climber, much to Yukiko’s surprise, and the trunk was scarred with deep gouges from his ascent. The wind moved like a wave across storm-tossed water, long blades of liriope and forest grass swaying with its song. The rain was a constant murmur, a heartbeat, and she curled up inside the nook of Buruu’s wing and dreamed of the safety of the womb, amniotic and warm.

  A metallic, insectoid rasping startled her from her sleep sometime after midnight. She sat upright. Buruu closed his wing around her, eyes shining in the gloom.

  QUIET. MONKEY-CHILD APPROACHES.

  She squinted through a fan of downy feathers and into the dark. She could hear unsteady, heavy footsteps, the sound of metal against metal. A rectangular slab of red light was moving toward them, a sawing rasp carrying above the music of the storm. Yukiko’s eyes widened as she made out a humanoid, mantis shape.

  An Artificer.

  WHAT?

  Amaterasu protect us. It’s a Guildsman. What is it doing here?

  WHAT IS GUILDSMAN?

  They administrate the Lotus Guild. They grow the blood lotus flower all over Kigen. Collect it for the Shōgun, process it into chi to fuel their machinery. And they burn people like me.

  DESPOILER PRIEST.

  She could feel the anger swell in Buruu’s heart; a cold, black hatred.

  It must be from the Thunder Child. It must have missed the lifeboat. Gods help us …

  DO NOT PRAY FOR US. PRAY FOR IT.

  Buruu moved, razor-swift, whisper-quiet, stretching out his wings and leaping into the dark. Yukiko shouted at him to wait. The Artificer looked toward her voice, sharp intake of breath hissing through its bellows as the shadow swooped down. It turned to run, far too late. Buruu was on top of it, swiping a fistful of bristling talons across its chest and sending it spinning into a nearby tree. A flash of bright sparks accompanied the hollow crack of bursting pipes. The Guildsman tumbled down into a tangle of wild roses, crying out in fright and pain amidst the groan of metal and hiss of acetylene.

  Yukiko swung down from the maple branches, running toward the pair, hand outstretched.

  “Buruu, stop!” she screamed. “Stop!”

  “Yukiko?” The Artificer wheezed, one hand clasped to its ruptured
breastplate.

  Buruu’s talons hung in the air, poised for the deathblow.

  IT KNOWS YOUR NAME.

  Yukiko frowned.

  It might have overheard it on the ship …

  “Yukiko-chan, it’s me.” The Guildsman fumbled with the clasps on its helmet. There was a hiss of suction, compressed air bursting from the cuff around its neck as the throat unfurled like a mechanical flower. It peeled the helmet away from its face and she saw pale skin, close-cropped hair, eyes bright as a knife-edge.

  “Kin-san?” she gasped.

  YOU KNOW THIS ONE?

  Yukiko was aghast, staring at the boy as if he were a ghost.

  I met him on the sky-ship. But I never saw him in his suit.

  “You’re a Guildsman?” Her eyes were narrowed with surprise and betrayal.

  “Hai.”

  “But Yamagata-san said the Child’s Guildsman was called Kioshi…”

  Kin had his hands up in surrender, back pressed against the tree behind him. Rose petals fell about him like snow. Thick red oozed from his ruptured breastplate, leaking down the brass in a sluggish flow. His eyes never left the arashitora’s claws.

  “Kioshi was my father. He died two summers ago.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s Guild custom to take the name of an honored parent after they pass.” He winced, moving slowly so as not to startle the thunder tiger looming above him. “Can you call off your friend, please? He seems to listen to you.”

  “You’re with them.” Yukiko took a step back, drew her knife. “You’re one of them.”

  “I was born one. I never chose it.” He looked up into her eyes. “You don’t get to choose your family.”

  “But you burn people, Kin. You burn children…”

  “No, that’s not me,” he shook his head. “I’m an Artificer, Yukiko. I fix engines. I build machines. That’s all.”

  “You could have said something. You lied to me.”

  “I never lied. I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

  “You said you were alone.”