The Poppy War (The Poppy War, #1)

by R.F. Kuang

When they finally got to the front, it took Rin a long time to find her name. She scanned the lower half of the scroll, hardly daring to breathe. Surely she hadn’t scored well enough to make the top ten. She didn’t see Fang Runin anywhere. Only when she looked at Tutor Feyrik and saw that he was crying did she realize what had happened. Her name was at the very top of the scroll. She hadn’t placed in the top ten. She’d placed at the top of the entire village. The entire province. She had bribed a teacher. She had stolen opium. She had burned herself, lied to her foster parents, abandoned her responsibilities at the store, and broken a marriage deal. And she was going to Sinegard.

“And so modern martial arts were developed: a system based on human biomechanics rather than the movements of animals. The enormous variety of techniques, some of which were only marginally useful to a soldier, were distilled into an essential core of forms that could be taught to a soldier in five years rather than fifty. This is the basis of what you are taught at Sinegard. This is the common core that is taught to the Imperial Militia. This is what your classmates are learning.” He grinned. “I am showing you how to beat it.”

The day came when she angled her hip against his just so, forced his weight to the side and jammed all her force at an angle that hurled him over her right shoulder. Jiang skidded across the stone floor and bumped against the garden wall, which shook the shelves so that a potted cactus came perilously close to shattering on the ground. Jiang lay there for a moment, dazed. Then he looked up, met her eyes, and grinned.

She understood, then, that Jiang was very far from mad. He might, in fact, be the sanest person she had ever met.

Sir?” Kitay asked. The magistrate turned to look at him. “What?” With a grunt, Kitay raised the crate over his head and flung it to the ground. It landed on the dirt with a hard thud, not the tremendous crash Rin had rather been hoping for. The wooden lid of the crate popped off. Out rolled several very nice porcelain teapots, glazed with a lovely flower pattern. Despite their tumble, they looked unbroken. Then Kitay took to them with a slab of wood. When he was done smashing them, he pushed his wiry curls out of his face and whirled on the sweating magistrate, who cringed in his seat as if afraid Kitay might start smashing at him, too. “We are at war,” Kitay said. “And you are being evacuated because for gods know what reason, you’ve been deemed important to this country’s survival. So do your job. Reassure your people. Help us maintain order. Do not pack your fucking teapots.”

War doesn’t determine who’s right. War determines who remains.”

His sword arm faltered, then dropped. The soldier made a startled gurgling noise as he stared in disbelief at the blade protruding from his stomach. He fell forward and lay still. Nezha met Rin’s eyes, and then wrenched his sword out of the soldier’s back. With his other hand he flung a spare weapon at her. She pulled it from the air. Her fingers closed with familiarity around the hilt. A wave of relief shot through her. She had a weapon. “Thanks,” she said. “On your left,” he responded. Without thinking they sank into a formation; back to back, fighting while covering each other’s blind spots. They made a startlingly good team. Rin covered for Nezha’s overstretched attacks; Nezha guarded Rin’s lower corners. They were each intimately familiar with the other’s weaknesses: Rin knew Nezha was slow to bring his guard back up after missed blows; Nezha parried from above while Rin ducked in low for close-quarters attacks. It wasn’t as if she could read his mind. She had simply spent so much time observing him that she knew exactly how he was going to attack. They were like a well-oiled machine. They were a spontaneously coordinated dance. They weren’t two parts of a whole, not quite, but they came close. If they hadn’t spent so much time hating each other, Rin thought, they might have trained together. Backs to each other, swords at the enemy, they fought with savage desperation. They fought better than men twice their age. They drew on each other’s strengths; as long as Nezha ...

“What is this?” His voice sounded with an unnatural reverberation, as if the very ground shook when he spoke. “Why have you stopped?” He brought his warhorse to a halt before Rin and Nezha. “Two puppies,” he said, his voice low in amusement. “Two Nikara puppies, holding an entire gate by themselves.

“Watch closely,” the general said to his soldiers. “This is how we deal with Nikara scum.” Rin reached out and grasped Nezha’s wrist. Nezha nodded curtly in response to her unspoken question. Together? Together. The general reared his monstrous horse back and charged them. There was nothing they could do now. In that moment, Rin could only squeeze her eyes shut and wait for the end. It didn’t come. A deafening clang shattered the air—the sound of metal against metal. The air itself shook with the unnatural vibration of a great force stopped in its tracks. When Rin realized she hadn’t been cut in half or trampled to death, she opened her eyes. “What the fuck?” Nezha said. Jiang stood before them, his white hair hanging still in the air as if he had been struck by lightning. His feet did not touch the ground. Both his arms were flung out, blocking the tremendous force of the general’s halberd with his own iron staff.

The general tried to force Jiang’s staff out of the way, and his arms trembled with a mighty pressure, but Jiang did not look like he was exerting any force at all. The air crackled unnaturally, like a prolonged rumble of thunder. The Federation soldiers fell back, as if they could sense an impending explosion. “Jiang Ziya,” said the general. “So you live after all.” “Do I know you?” Jiang asked. The general responded with another massive swing of his halberd. Jiang waved his staff and blocked the blow as effortlessly as if he were swatting away a fly. He dispelled the force of the blow into the air and the ground below them. The paving stones shuddered from the impact, nearly knocking Rin and Nezha off their feet. “Call off your men.” Though Jiang spoke calmly, his voice echoed as if he had shouted. He appeared to have grown taller; not larger, but extended somehow, just as his shadow was extended against the wall behind them. No longer willowy and fidgety, Jiang seemed an entirely different person—someone younger, someone infinitely more powerful. Rin stared at him in awe. The man before her was not the doddering, eccentric embarrassment of the Academy. This man was a soldier. This man was a shaman.

“I . . .” She hadn’t considered this. “But there’s already a Speerly in the Militia,” she said. “What about Altan?” Irjah’s beard twitched. “Would you like to meet your commander?” “What?” She blinked, not comprehending. Irjah turned and called to someone behind the door, “Well, come on in.” The door opened. The man who walked through was tall and lithe; he did not wear a Militia uniform but a black tunic without any insignia. He carried a silver trident strapped across his back. Rin swallowed, fighting a ridiculous urge to sweep her hair behind her ears. She felt a familiar flush, a heat starting at the tops of her ears. He had gained several scars since she’d last seen him, including two on his forearm and one that ran ragged across his face, from the lower right corner of his left eye down to his right jaw. His hair was no longer cropped tidily as it had been at school, but had grown unruly and wild, like he hadn’t bothered with it in months. “Hi,” said Altan Trengsin. “What was that about losers and rejects?”

“The Cike aren’t so bad once you get to know them,” he said as he led her out of the basement. “I mean, we kill people on orders, but on the whole we’re quite nice.”

So Khurdalain was the vital crux on which the fate of the rest of the country lay. “We’re the final front,” said Altan. “If we fail, this country’s lost.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Excited?”

“Of course. You’re the Empress’s special brats,” Jun drawled. “Reinforcements. What a joke.” He shot a last disdainful look at Altan and stalked off. He pretended not to see Rin. “So that’s been the last week,” Qara said with a sigh. “I thought you said everything was fine,” Altan said. “I exaggerated.” Ramsa peered up at his commander. “Hi, Trengsin,” he said cheerfully. “Glad you’re back.” Altan pressed his hands against his face and then tilted his head up, inhaling deeply.

They’ve been holding councils on the regular. They don’t really invite us, on account of, well. You know.” Ramsa trailed off, suddenly looking very guilty. Altan shot Qara a questioning look. “Ramsa blew up half the foreign quarter at the docks,” she reported. “Didn’t give the Warlords advance warning.” “I blew up one building.” “It was a big building,” Qara said flatly. “The Fifth still had two men inside.” “Well, did they survive?” Altan asked. Qara stared at him in disbelief. “Ramsa detonated a building on them.”

“Where’s your other half?” Qara looked irritated. “Out.” “Well, when’s he back?” “When he’s back,” Qara said testily. “Chaghan comes and goes on his own schedule. You know that.” “As long as his schedule accommodates the fact that we’re, you know, fighting a war,” said Baji. “He could at least hurry.” Qara snorted. “You two don’t even like Chaghan. What do you want him back for?” “We’ve been eating rice gruel for days. It’s about time we had some dessert up here.” Baji smiled, displaying sharp incisors. “I’m talking sugar.” “I thought Chaghan was getting something for Altan,” Rin said, confused. “Sure,” said Unegen. “Doesn’t mean he can’t stop at a bakery on the way back.” “Is he at least close?” Baji asked. “I’m not my brother’s homing pigeon,” Qara grumbled. “We’ll know where he is when he’s back.” “Can’t you two just, you know, do that thing?” Unegen tapped his temples. Qara made a face. “We’re anchor twins, not mirror-wells.” “Oh, you can’t do mirror-wells?” “Nobody can do mirror-wells,” Qara snapped. “Not anymore.” Unegen looked at Rin over the table and winked, as if winding Qara up was something he and Baji regularly did for fun.

“Gang’s together again,” Ramsa said happily. “Sans Chaghan,” said Baji. “When’s he back? Qara? Estimated location?” Qara glowered at him. “Never mind,” said Baji.

“In three days, the Federation will bring in a fleet to supplement the troops at the Sharhap River. Their warship will unload twelve sampans bearing men, supplies, and fire powder off the coast. Qara’s birds have seen them sailing over the narrow strait. At their current speed, we predict they will land after sunset of the third day,” Altan announced. “I want to sink them.” “And I want to sleep with the Empress.” Baji looked around. “Sorry, I thought we were voicing our fantasies.” Altan looked unamused.

Baji looked confused. “Then why the hell are they docking there?” Altan looked smug. “For precisely the same reasons that the First and Eighth are amassing troops by Sharhap. Sharhap’s the obvious landing spot. The Federation don’t think anyone will be guarding Murui. But they weren’t counting on, you know, talking birds.” “Nice one,” Unegen said. “Thank you.” Qara looked smug.

As fire rockets continued to shoot toward the Federation fleet, a series of flaming arrows screamed through the night sky and thudded into the cargo trunks. The volley of arrows came so rapidly that it seemed as if an entire squadron were concealed in the marshes, firing from different directions, but Rin knew that it was only Qara, safely ensconced on the opposite bank, firing with the blinding speed of a trained huntress from the Hinterlands. Next Qara took out the engineers. She punctured the forehead of every other man, tidily collapsing the man-made bridge with a surreal neatness. Assaulted from all sides by enemy fire, the Federation fleet began to burn. The Federation soldiers abandoned their flaming boats in a panic. They leaped for the bank, only to be bogged down in the muddy marsh. Men slipped and fell in paddy water that came up to their waists, filling up their heavy armor. Then, at a whisper from Altan, the reeds along the shore also burst into flame, surrounding the Federation like a death trap. Even so, some made it to the opposite bank. A throng of soldiers—ten, twenty—clambered onto dry land—only to run into Suni and Baji. Rin wondered how Suni and Baji intended to hold the entire strip of peat alone. They were only two, and from what she knew of their shamanic abilities, they couldn’t control a far-ranging element the way Altan or Aratsha could. Surely they were outnumbered. She shouldn’t have worried. They barreled through the soldiers like boulders cra...

It was utter carnage. It was beautiful. Altan’s plan had been brilliant in conception. Under normal circumstances, a squad of eight could not hope to stand a chance against such massive odds. But Altan had chosen a battlefield where every single one of the Federation advantages was negated by their surroundings, and the Cike’s advantages were amplified. What it came down to was that the smallest division of the Militia had brought down an entire fleet.

I’m very pleased with your performance today.” “ ‘I’m very pleased with your performance today,’ ” Baji mimicked when Altan had left. “Someone tell him to get that stick out of his butt.” Ramsa leaned back on his elbows and nudged Rin with his foot. “Was he this insufferable at the Academy?” “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know him well at Sinegard.” “I bet he’s always been like this. Old man in a young man’s body. You think he ever smiles?” “Only once a year,” said Baji. “Accidentally, in his sleep.”

She wondered when he would next lose control and fall prey to that screaming voice in his mind. He was so terrifyingly strong—he had broken men apart in his hands like eggs. He killed so well and so efficiently. He could have killed Altan. Three nights ago in the mess hall Suni could have broken Altan’s neck as easily as he would wring a chicken’s. The thought made her dry-mouthed with fear. And she wondered at how Altan had known this and had crossed the distance to Suni anyway, had placed his life completely in the hands of his subordinate.

“Possibly it’s a trap,” said Altan. But Rin was looking past the flag at a face in the ranks—a boy, a beautiful boy with the palest skin and lovely almond eyes, walking on his own two legs as if his spine had never been severed. As if he had never been impaled on a general’s halberd. As if he could sense her gaze, Nezha looked up. Their eyes met under the moonlight. Rin’s heart leaped. The Dragon Warlord had responded to the call. The Seventh Division was here. “That’s not a trap,” she said.

“Good luck,” said Enki. “Say hi to Feylen for us.” “Great guy,” Unegen said wistfully. “Until, you know, he tried to flatten everything in a twenty-mile radius.” “Don’t exaggerate,” said Ramsa. “It was only ten.”

When the rubble cleared, Jiang’s serene form was revealed under a layer of crumbling dust. He lay perfectly still against the rock, the sides of his mouth curved faintly upward as if he found something deeply amusing. He might have been sleeping. He opened his eyes, looked them up and down, and blinked. “You might have knocked first.” Rin stepped toward him. “Master?” Jiang tilted his head sideways. “Have you gotten taller?”

Rin and Altan were starved, weakened, still half-drugged. And yet they fought, back to back. They moved as perfect complements to each other. They achieved a better synchronization than Rin had even with Nezha, for Nezha knew how she moved only by observing her. Altan didn’t have to—Altan knew by instinct who she was, how she would fight, because they were the same. They were two parts of a whole. They were Speerlies.

Chaghan folded his arms across his chest. “No, Altan named his successor before we left for Golyn Niis.” Rin jerked her head up. That was news. “Who?” Chaghan looked like he couldn’t believe she had asked. “It’s you,” he said, as if it were obvious. Rin felt like he had punched her in the solar plexus. Altan had named her as his successor. Entrusted his legacy to her. He had written and signed the order in blood before they had even left Khurdalain.

“I’m going to find and kill everyone responsible,” said Rin. “You cannot stop me.” Chaghan laughed a dry, cutting laugh. “Oh, I’m not going to stop you.” He held out his hand. She grasped it, and the drowned land and the ash-choked sky bore witness to the pact between Seer and Speerly. They had come to an understanding, she and Chaghan. They were no longer opposed, vying for Altan’s favor. They were allies, now, bound by the mutual atrocities they had committed. They had a god to kill. A world to reshape. An Empress to overthrow.