Rob Hobart

Campaign Fiction: Summer of War, Part Five

This was the first of two lengthy fictions that I released after GenCon, both to show the aftermath of the events there and (in this case) to show what was happening in the other wars still ongoing in the Empire.

The second half of this fiction, in which Matsu Nimuro is seemingly assassinated and Akodo Gintaku becomes Clan Champion, actually started out as a module outline submitted by a Lion player who had figured out what was going on within his clan. He wanted the PCs to personally witness the events and perhaps get stronger clues that Nimuro had faked his death, but he was unable to make the transition from outline to actual module. Ultimately, I decided the best use of the material was to turn it into the second half of this fiction.

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North of the Bridge of Lion’s Might, late summer 1503

Ikoma Toroku kneels beneath the shade of the treeline, sweating heavily, swallowing against the knot of excitement and tension in his chest. Beside him, the lord of the Akodo and his chief general watch impassively, unmoving in the baking late summer heat. Although the trees shade them, there is no breeze, and the air seems almost solid, like a stifling quilt pressing on them from all sides.

A messenger slips through the trees and prostrates himself behind Akodo Gintaku. The lord of the Akodo ignores him, focusing his attention on the plains and road below. A Dragon army advances there, force-marching in tight columns, driving south toward the distant arc of the Bridge of Lion’s Might, fluttering with the banners of the Dragon scouts who hold it for their comrades.

Gintaku finally takes the letter from the messenger and unfolds it, reading silently. A cold smile touches his lips. “It seems the Mantis gambit has failed,” he says softly. Beside him, Akodo Mako lets his teeth briefly flash in a snarl of triumph. “As expected.”

Toroku resists the urge to fidgit as sweat trickles down his back. “All the same, a considerable risk, my lord, to keep so much of our strength here rather than sending reinforcements to the capital.”

Gintaku shakes his head minutely. “Without their Scorpion allies, the Mantis could not succeed.” He watches the Dragon army, eyes narrow. “Another minute, I think.” “As you say, my lord,” Mako agrees, his voice tight with chained eagerness.

Toroku swallows against the knot of tension in his chest. The Dragon army is moving at a relentless pace, dust rising in choking clouds as the narrow column quick-steps toward its goal. For two days the Lion skirmishers fought to delay it, but yesterday they finally pulled back and the Dragon drove south with all their strength. Now, with their goal in sight, they move faster yet, despite the oppressive heat and choking dust.

It must be now, Toroku thinks, surely we must strike now!

Yet still Gintaku waits, calmly watching, his only movement a faint caress of his fingers on the hilt of his wakizashi. Finally he lifts one hand and makes a small gesture. Behind him, a bushi rises to his feet

and fires a humming-bulb arrow, cutting the sky with a shrieking whistle.

And the landscape changes. The hill’s crest drops by six feet, and the Matsu army is visible at last, rising collectively from its knees, ten thousand blades coming free of saya to throw off slashing angles of light. A roaring many-voiced shout rises up to challenge the vast empty blue of the sky. The Matsu surge forward, running downhill toward the Dragon army. The Dragon column stumbles to a halt, caught off-guard by the sudden appearance of its foe, some units reacting more quickly and trying to reform for battle.

Toroku trembles in awe at the sight. “How many shugenja, to work such a deception?”

“All of them,” Gintaku answers simply. “Some gave their lives.”

“A worthy sacrifice,” Mako adds.

Toroku darts a puzzled look at the Lion general. His voice sounded almost… mocking. But Mako’s face is as serious and respectful as any Lion could wish. The Ikoma daimyo shakes his head, refocusing his attention on the battle. The heat is making me imagine things, he tells himself.

Already the lines are shockingly close, the Matsu closing the distance in half a minute. Flashes of light and flame erupt among them as Dragon shugenja begin to react to the attack, but not fast enough to break the charge’s momentum. The lines meet in a sprawling crash, formations on both sides dissolving into a thousand individual battles, bushi testing their swords and skills in the ultimate measure.

“Magnificent,” Toroku breathes. “A victory for the ages.”

“Not quite yet.” Gintaku looks to the south.

The Dragon scouts at the bridge are scattering, battling tawny shapes that slide through the sun-browned grass like smoke. Men and women in light, unconfining armor run among the lions – the Beastmasters, leading their charges into action. Unable to escape beasts that run faster than a man, the Dragon stand and die, brave and futile.

And from the other side of the bridge come the marching columns of the Akodo Army, racing north to join the battle, hammer to the Matsu anvil.

“*Now* it is a victory for the ages,” Mako says, showing teeth in a shark-like grin. He unsheathes his sword and gestures to the men waiting behind him, the Akodo House Guard. “Time to finish this, great lord?”

Gintaku nods, face iron-hard, and pulls his wakizashi from its saya. “Indeed. And Mirumoto Jintei’s head is mine.”

Shiro Matsu, two months later.

Guests and Lion dignitaries flow into the gates of Shiro Matsu, passing the honor guard that line both sides. The castle within is spartan, but some attempt has been made to spruce things up, with a few random ikebana placed in strategic locations. The effect is rather like makeup applied to a bushi. The guests from other Clans step carefully in the presence of so many elite Lion warriors.

As night falls, the doors to the Great Hall swing open. A flurry of taiko drums call the guests’ attention, welcoming them into the vast chamber where the lord of the Matsu will prove himself once and for all.

Priests speak prayers and then scatter sand on the polished floor to prepare for the matches to come. The Taiko drums reach a frenzied climax and then fall silent as three samurai pace into the center of the hall.

Kitsu Shuji speaks first, his deep voice reciting the words in a chant which reaches the farthest corners of the vaulted chamber. “Too long have the Matsu ancestors watched their family walk the land leaderless.”

Akodo Gintaku speaks next, his voice stone-flat as he intones, “Akodo tacticians may direct our armies, but we do not know the fire in Matsu hearts.”

Ikoma Toroku takes up the speech. “We Ikoma are not warriors. Without the Matsu we will have no tales to tell.”

Kitsu Shuji continues, “None can argue the place of our cousins. The spirits tell my family that there is one who may tame the heart of the Lion and lead the Matsu and our clan to victory against the enemies of the Empire. For we are the spirit--”

“And the heart--” says Ikoma Toroku.

“And the strong right arm--” says Akodo Gintaku.

“Of the Emerald Empire,” they finish together.

A fourth figure enters the ring, a young man dressed in the simple kimono and hakama of a Lion samurai. He stands quietly before the three daimyo. Ikoma Toroku takes up the ritual chant. “The Ikoma records tell us that there is one who has the proper bloodline to rule the Matsu. I speak for this one and proclaim that he passes the test of lineage.”

Kitsu Shuji steps forward and looks deep into the eyes of the young man before him. “The ancestors have faith in this one. With their guidance many great things can be accomplished. I speak for this one and proclaim that he passes the test of spirit.”

Finally, Akodo Gintaku steps forward. “The Matsu have always respected strength. They will not follow a lord who cannot defend his own honor. Let this man show his fire to any who would doubt him. Let him prove that he should lead the Matsu. Let him pass the test of steel.”

Matsu Nimuro bows, then turns to face the gathered Lion. Kitsu Shuji steps up behind him, speaking clearly. “Cousins, I will watch over this test. Long has it fallen to my family to oversee this event. We do so in order to protect the honor of both the Matsu and your own families. May the ancestors watch over each of us and may the Lion continue to stand between Rokugan and its enemies.”

“The challenges begin tomorrow. Matsu Nimuro will face any Matsu who wishes to challenge him, here in the Great Hall where all may witness.”

In a candlelit chamber, Matsu Nimuro kneels, hands resting lightly on the katana across his lap. Kitsu Shuji waits silently, his own hands steepled in thought, attentive for his lord’s command.

“Shuji-san,” Nimuro says finally. “These are dark times.”

The Kitsu daimyo answers in a soft voice. “As you say, my lord.”

Nimuro does not lift his eyes from the sheathed blade he holds. “I am sorry to ask this of you, but I can see no other choice.”

Shuji lowers his head, his expression placid. “The Kitsu have served the Lion faithfully for 1500 years. I cannot do otherwise.”

The sound of swords clashing echoes through the Great Hall. Another Lion falls to his knees, clutching the wound on his sword-arm, and bows his head in defeat. Matsu Nimuro bows in turn and steps back, panting slightly, letting his gaze rove across the gathered crowd. His bare feet squeak on the polished wood floor as he shifts his posture slightly.

“Anyone else?”

For a moment there is silence, and Nimuro almost begins to sheath his sword. But then a man steps forward, a hardened warrior in his thirties, hand on his katana hilt. He bows to his lord, then draws his sword. “I am Matsu Kotara, and I offer my challenge this day.”

“So be it,” Nimuro answers, and drops into his stance.

The two men circle for a few moments, watching each other, their swords moving precisely from one posture to the next. Nimuro’s eyes narrow as he gauges the man. “Skilled,” he thinks, “though not as skilled as I.”

The floor flexes and squeals as they surge toward each other, swords flashing in silvery blurs, then pass and turn, blades back into guard. After a moment, Matsu Kotara lowers his sword, grimacing slightly as blood runs down from the cut in his shoulder. “You are the victor.”

Nimuro does not answer. The man’s attack was clumsy, leaving himself open… but that allowed his blade to cut Nimuro’s side, lightly, as they disengaged. He feels a numbness spreading out from the wound, and opens his mouth to speak, but somehow his tongue has gone thick and heavy, and all he can do is mumble as the floor swings up and strikes him like a hammer.

“Treason!” roars Akodo Gintaku.

The room is full of thundering noise, swords shrieking from saya as a score of Lion surround the challenger. Kitsu Shuji kneels by his fallen lord, whispering prayers, his hands pressing on the wound heedless of the impure touch of blood.

Matsu Kotara stands quietly, smiling at the blades that descend on him from all sides. “I serve the Lion,” he says, in the instant before they cut him apart.

Gintaku walks across the suddenly silent hall, his eyes locked on his fallen Champion and the old shugenja whispering prayers. “Kitsu-sama?”

Kitsu Shuji shakes his head. His expression is locked within the iron control of on, face. “Lord Nimuro is dead. The poison was too swift.” He hesitates a moment, then prostrates himself. “Lord Gintaku. I ask permission to commit seppuku, to atone for my failure to protect my lord’s life.”

“Granted,” Gintaku replies. “After the funeral, when you have guided Lord Nimuro’s soul into the afterlife. That much the Lion still demand of you, Kitsu Shuji.”

Shuji nods, face pressed against crossed palms.

Two days later.

The last of the oaths are spoken, the last vows made. Akodo Gintaku seats himself and accepts the prostrations of the Lion Clan.

“Though we would have chosen for it to happen another way, the Fortunes have willed otherwise. The rule of the Lion returns to the Akodo, to the descendents of the Kami himself. I vow to rule with the same honor and ferocity as our late lord Matsu Nimuro. I vow to bring an era when the Lion will ascend to greater glories than ever before.”

Ikoma Toroku steps forward, eyes shining, and turns to face the assembly. “Hail Akodo Gintaku, victor at the Bridge of Lion’s Might! Hail the Steel Lion!”

“HAIL THE STEEL LION!”



Campaign Fiction: Summer of War, Part Six The last of the Summer of War fictions was written as an explicit follow-up to the outcome from Allegiance to the Emperor. (By contrast, Part Five made only a brief mention of the failed Mantis gambit.) The first half of the fiction was written to show Ogawa's fate and, in the process, establish that the Mantis Clan was not actually going to be disbanded despite the shenanigans of the CCG players. The second half showed the fate of Sven Oldarsson and thus established that there was not going to be a Thrane invasion (many players had mistakenly seen the Thrane "create a colony by propping up a local ruler" gambit as an outright invasion).

I actually greatly enjoyed writing both of these fictions, especially the second one in which allowed me to engage in subtle creative hints about the nature of Thranish society and politics. Also, I should mention that Daniel Hatchermann's Rokugani lover was a PC whose player had written a long series of character fictions with the specific goal of creating a relationship with him. Since she was leaving Rokugan for a society in which "love triumphs" is the social/cultural norm, and since Daniel had ultimately prevailed against Sven, I gave her a happy ending. :)

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The Mantis Isles, late summer, 1503

Yoritomo Rinsei strides up the hillside to the door of the dojo, grimacing as the tropical heat of late summer soaks him with sweat and plasters his light kimono to his skin. It is during this season that he finds himself hating the Islands of Silk and Spice. The dojo perches at the crest of the hill, overlooking the great blue expanse of the Umi Amaterasu. Rinsei pauses there a moment to let the sea breeze cool him before he approaches the dojo's great wooden doors.

There are two men there, tough-looking bushi with kama through their belts. They bow respectfully. "Yoritomo Rinsei-sama. You honor Dojo Raiden with your presence. How may we assist you?" Rinsei eyes them narrowly. "You can bring me to your sensei."

"We are very sorry, Yoritomo Rinsei-sama, but Ogawa-sensei is busy at this time. Perhaps if you returned tomorrow…"

"Be silent." Rinsei's voice snaps like a whip, and the men of the Storm Legion who have followed him up the hill are suddenly bristling at his side, hands on weapons. "I am not here to play courtly games. I am the Champion of the Mantis, and I will see Ogawa. Stand aside or slit your bellies, your choice."

The two guards exchange a brief look, then bow low and kneel to the side of the door. Rinsei strides forward and slides the twin wooden shoji open. The dojo chamber beyond is empty, the floor swept perfectly clean, the practice weapons neatly arrayed on their racks. Another door stands open on the far side, looking out on the ocean.

"Wait here," Rinsei commands. The Storm Legion open their mouths to protest, and he glares at them. "Ogawa is no fool. What would he gain by harming me? Wait here, I said."

They wait.

Rinsei passes through the dojo, into the small rock garden on the far side. Ogawa waits there, seated on a large boulder, looking out on the sea. Rinsei momentarily feels the press of memory, recalling when they stood here together three months ago, making promises to each other and the boy Hizatoru. All for nothing.

The old man does not turn away from his contemplation of the sea, but he knows Rinsei is there all the same. "My lord. Welcome."

Rinsei is silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Finally he says, "You know what has happened."

"Of course." Ogawa tosses a pebble thoughtfully between his hands. "The meddling Tortoise… a pity."

"A… pity? Is that all you can say?" Rinsei throttles rage. "Is that all you can say? Our Clan has been shamed before all the Empire. We tried to place an illegitimate heir on the throne!" Ogawa shrugs. "It would not have mattered if we had succeeded."

Rinsei is silent for a moment, thunderstruck. Finally he says, "You knew?"

"I suspected, from hints the Scorpion offered." The old sensei grins, showing the stumps of ancient teeth. "What does it matter? If we had taken the throne none would dare speak of it." "Madness," Rinsei says. He stares at the old man, the man he once counted as a friend, the man he trusted. "You would have put a false Emperor on the throne, backed with gaijin force. You would have dishonored the Mantis Clan for all time."

"Dishonor the Mantis? I brought us closer to our destiny than any Mantis in history. The Thrane were useful pawns, nothing more – they could never have remained in Rokugan without our aid, as you well know. Without the Tortoise interference and the Scorpion cowardice we would have succeeded, fulfilled the prophecy and made the Yoritomo the rulers of Rokugan. Your daughter would have birthed a line of Emperors."

"A line of false Emperors." Rinsei shakes his head, his face flushed with rage. "I trusted you, and you have brought us to ruin. Do you have any idea what this has cost us? We will lose the Ivory Kingdoms trade, at the very least. We will be years recovering from this catastrophe. The Thrane trade returns to the Tortoise. There is even talk of trying to force the Moshi and Tsuruchi out of our ranks."

The old man shakes his head. "All I have ever done, I have done for the Mantis. I carry the blood of Yoritomo in my veins. I am a true Mantis." He narrows his eyes, staring directly into Rinsei's face. "Are you? I thought so once, but perhaps I was mistaken."

Rinsei is silent for a long moment, mastering himself. Finally he speaks, voice tight with effort. "I am the lord of the Mantis Clan. I decide who is a true Mantis, not you." The old man opens his mouth to speak once more, but Rinsei overrides him. "We must make amends for our actions. You will commit seppuku, along with the commanders of our forces in the capital, and I will offer your heads to the Imperial Families in restitution for our errors. If we are fortunate, that is all they will require."

Ogawa is still and silent for a moment, and Rinsei waits, wondering if he has misjudged the old man. But finally the sensei of Dojo Raiden smirks slightly and bows low, touching his forehead to the gravel. "As you command. I leave the Mantis in your hands."

"The Storm Legion waits outside. They will deliver your head to me."

Ogawa raises an eyebrow. "And you entered alone? Perhaps the blood of Yoritomo still flows in your veins." He rises with a creaking of old joints and walks out of the dojo, back straight. Left alone, Yoritomo Rinsei looks out at the sunlit ocean.

"Goodbye, sensei," he whispers.

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Sven Oldarsson leans on the railing of the ship, watching the heaving waters of the Western Ocean. His hands, weighted by the iron manacles on his wrists, tighten on the heavy oaken beam. He lets the cold sea-spray coat his face, and thinks, How did it all go so wrong?

"Considering jumping in?"

The old Thrane turns and sees Daniel Hatcherman strolling toward him, legs flexing against the pitching of the deck. The King's Hand grins cheerfully through his light-brown moustache and beard. The Rokugani woman behind him moves more carefully, gripping the rail to keep herself upright, her pale face slightly green. In contrast to Hatcherman, her face is expressionless, but Sven has been in Rokugan long enough to recognize the loathing in her eyes.

Sven forces a cool smile onto his face. "I suppose you are feeling very pleased with yourself, Daniel."

"Pleased?" Daniel's grin turns icy. "Ten thousand Thranish soldiers are dead. Brave patriotic men who should be home in their barracks, drinking to the King's health. No, I am not pleased." Sven shrugs. "Gambles do not always pay off. A pity, but such is the way of the world."

"A gamble?" Daniel shakes his head. "Did you really think you had any chance of success? That the Rokugani would have accepted an Emperor imposed by foreign troops?"

"The savages think their Emperor is a god come to earth. Why should they not do whatever he commanded?"

Hatcherman regards Sven with an expression that mingles wonder and contempt. "You lived there five times as long as I, yet I think you never knew them at all."

"Didn't I?" Sven eyes the woman behind Daniel. "Well, you certainly know one of them quite well, Daniel." He leers. "Not that I begrudge you the chance. Their women are quite remarkable. Why, some of them…" He goes on at some length, and in considerable detail.

The Rokugani girl's eyes flash and she takes a step forward, but Daniel stops her with a raised left hand. His own voice remains pleasant. "Yes, a duel on ship would be a much cleaner death than the headsman's block, wouldn't it?"

Sven smirks. "You cannot blame me for trying. And are you so sure the block awaits me?"

Daniel does not bother to answer, and of course he is right. Sven allows himself a moment to brood. If he had escaped cleanly, returned to Thrane on his own, he and his allies could have roused public opinion, whipped up fury over the ten thousand Thranish troops martyred by a primitive barbarian empire. The people would have demanded vengeance, and the King and the House of Burgesses would have had no choice but to proclaim war and dispatch a far greater army to destroy Rokugan. It had been done before, more than once.

But no, not this time. Sven was returning in chains, and the moment their ship docked he would be carted off to the dungeon under Northhead Point. The King would control the public debate, dictate how the public learned of this defeat, and when Sven appeared before the Burgesses for trial, the streets would be full of commons shouting for his head. His allies would flee his toxic name, and his own family would have no choice but to sacrifice him to preserve itself.

All because of Daniel and his allies in that miserable so-called Tortoise Clan.

Sven eyes the young Rokugani woman behind Hatcherman, and considers. It would not be difficult, even at his advancing age, to throw her overboard. She would drown quickly, he knows most of these savages do not know how to swim.

But no. Daniel is leaning casually on the railing, his eyes are alert, and his right hand rests on the hilt of his small-sword.

"A death on ship-board would be clean," Hatcherman says. "So I would have to confine myself to hamstringing you, to ensure you lived until trial."

Sven forces himself to smile. "Such unpleasant topics. I assure you, I have no intentions of violence."

Hatcherman grins again, smoothing back his sea-wet moustache. "Good," he says, and turns to his Rokugani bride. "Let us leave our fellow citizen to his thoughts, my dear."

They leave, maneuvering back across the deck as the ship crests one wave and rides it down toward another. Oldarsson clutches the rail and wonders, once more, how it could all have gone so terribly wrong.