[Nine Months Ago] [h3]The Shogunate of Akaiba[/h3][hr]

[hider=The Final Stronghold]
[center][h3]The Final Stronghold[/h3][/center]

The Okin had chosen their position well. The natural rock formations in this part of the mountains lent their own particular defensive qualities to a well dug in enemy and the Okinese had wasted no time in taking advantage of natures gift. Their banner, a white dragon on a yellow background trying to catch its own tail, flapped from a small peak that thrust up from the centre of their line. The summit had been hacked into some approximation of a castle turret and the rounded head of a catapult peeked out over the rim, hinting at the horrors that an attacker might face in any assault. 

Hatamoto Taketora Ogata was kneeling on the hard stone, oblivious to the pain starting to creep up his legs, as he stared at the defences. The Okinese had done their work well, a series of trenches reaching the entire length of the ridge would impede any attack severely. Even from where he sat he could make out the bowmen that paced the upper trenches, and above them more bowmen who manned the natural toweresque columns of stone that had been carved and hacked into a shape desirable for men to walk in safety.

This was a landscape that gave the defender every advantage. Only the wind, which was strong enough to push at his cloak, would be of any help when it ripped arrows sideways and tossed them among the stones. Even vegetation here was scarce except in the more sheltered cracks and crevices. To the West and East he could see the forest rolling away far beneath them and the smell of Spring was driven to him by the wind. The smell of new leaves, of rain, and of new life, a juxtaposition when you remembered why he was on this mountain ridge.

One did not become a Hatamoto in the Akaiba Army but sitting on ones heels however and he gave a grunt as he rose to his feet, his right hand never leaving the hilt of his short killing sword. The wind, though fierce, did not touch him through the layers of silk and armour that he wore, all of it dyed a deep red colour like the banner that snapped in the wind above his head. Only his mask was of a different colour, a deep obsidian black. 

"It's going to be a bastard."  A samurai spoke quietly on his right. That man, Masanori Ito, was one of two captains who serving Taketora, both half his age.

"Yes." Taketora agreed without looking at the other man. "But take it we must." He turned away and walked back toward the edge of the ridge behind which his soldiers were sheltering. Their position was concealed from the waiting Okinese and he knew that the enemy did not know how many men he had with him, the only consolation in the upcoming fight.

It had taken a month of brutally hard combat to push the Okinese back up the side of the mountain. In the end, it had been the weather that triumphed, or rather the Runelords who had manipulated the impossible conditions no man could endure for long on the open slopes. When he had climbed the heights for the first time he had found the small holes hacked out by the defenders to serve as shelter. It was no wonder they had retreated upward when the alternating squalls of fire, rain, snow, and gods know what else swept over them. The efforts had drained the Runelords of their power for the moment and so the ridge itself would have to be taken with steel.

Sentries nodded to both officers as they passed. He did not require them to salute on the battlefield, it only served to mark a man as an officer and any archer with half a brain would target such a man first. He gave a grim smile as he observed the long lines of men crouching quietly together, their armour as red as his own. This was the Dodomeki Regiment, a finer group of men he had never commanded. Each had been fighting since they were fourteen and been sent to the Shoguns legions by their parents. A third of them were proper Samurai, the other two thirds were Ashigaru, well armed and well trained foot soldiers from the peasant classes.  A single Runelord was present, a novice who had learned her healing spells and would serve to save a few lives today. All had removed the battle flags from their back at his orders, in terrain like this they would only prove a hindrance to fighting men and serve to reveal their position.

Nearest to him were a group of forty soldiers, each one standing at attention and staring straight ahead without comment. All but one were ashigaru, a lone Samurai among them had been stripped of his fine armour and given a common soldiers equipment instead. Each had committed some minor offence, perhaps a chipped weapon or a missing strap, and had been sentenced to a dozen lashes. They had been given a choice however; they could take their lashes and let the shame of their failure mark them forever, or they could lead the charge against the Okin fortifications. This would allow them the opportunity to redeem themselves in battle, or to die gloriously in service to their Shogun. To a man they had chosen to fight. He was proud of them all.

"Men." His voice was not loud but he had their attention instantly. He felt a warm glow in his gut. With men like this he would conquer the world. "The time has come. The wind will render their archers helpless but make no mistake, the defences are formidable. There are three lines of trenches before the fortresses itself and at least two catapults."

He ran his eyes over the assembled soldiers. There were some 900 soldiers crowding close and he saw the intensity burning in their eyes. This was a generation who had grown up knowing nothing but war against the Okin and to them, at long last, the end might be in sight. For the last four years they had fought and died in the mountain passes, on the sides of jagged peaks, and on ridges that had no name. For four years they had bled for the Shogun and now he would ask even more of them. He knew they would not refuse.

"Beyond this ridge, in those trenches, are the Okin. They came to our lands a hundred years ago to make war on our people and now we stand here, on the edge of oblivion, preparing to finish what they started." It wasn't entirely true, the Okin were not defeated by any stretch but when this fortress fell it would be the last of their high mountain strongholds. "For your country! For your Shogun!"

"HOO-AH!" The roar came from 900 voices and they surged forward as he turned, thrusting a fist toward the distant fortifications.

The Forlorn Hope, the men who chose death over dishonour, went first, aiming straight up the middle of the ridge. Three columns formed like living things, one behind the Forlorn Hope and one on either side as they charged across the ridge. Taketora led them.

He was screaming as he charged, letting the fear that every man and woman felt before battle channel itself into something more primal. His katana flashed in the sunlight, the scabbard left behind where he could find it later, and he wanted to see her shining steel dulled with the blood of his enemies.

He heard a distant "whump" and saw the head of a catapult suddenly snap into view. He could spare no more than a glance at the siege weapon as he jumped a small crevasse and dodged around tall boulder. Then he heard a tremendous crash and shouts of alarm that turned into catcalls as the men of Akaiba ran on. He did not look to see if any had been injured, there would be time to help them later.

Crossbowmen suddenly stood in the leading trench and levelled their weapons at the charging soldiers. The flat crack of their missiles being released echoed across the ridge despite the wind and he saw soldiers in the Forlorn Hope jerked backwards as if someone had yanked backward on a rope to collapse among the stones. Blood spattered the grey stone, a stark flash of colour  against all the dull rock, until it faded almost instantly to black. 

The crossbowmen fired once more and more red armoured soldiers tumbled, some dead, others wounded. Archers in the second and third line tried to use their own weapons but as he had known they would, the arrows vanished into the void beyond. The bows were tossed down and weapons snatched up, a forest of spears appearing all along the lip of stone.

The Forlorn Hope was in the first trench now and he saw a katana rising and falling, stained with blood. Ashigaru were thrusting into the trenches with spears and screaming their battle cries. His own breath was sounding loud in his earths now as he ran, his feet pounding across the hard ground, aware that several of his younger men were beginning to overtake him as they raced for the trenches. His lungs were burning and he could feel the impact of his feet reverberating through his spine.

With a snarl he pushed himself to run faster, quickly arriving at the first trench. The Forlorn Hope had done their job well. Several Akaiba bodies lay sprawled in the ugly embrace of death, but the first trench had been taken, the dead Okinese soldiers curled around the wounds that had killed them. An ashigaru was staring in amazement at the stump of his hand while another was staring at the blue sky in stunned surprise, a crossbow bolt embedded under his chin.  He would look back on these moments later with horror and sadness but there was no time to consider them now.

He leapt across the trench and continued to run for the second line. The survivors of the Forlorn Hope were ahead of him, the samurai in the lead, his katana waving above his head. Taketora felt rather than heard the great stone that smashed into the Forlorn Hope, obliterating the samurai and several ashigaru with him. The stone skipped clean over Taketora and crashed into the column behind him. Screams split the air as mens’ lives snuffed out on the cold stone in this high place forsaken by the gods.

The second trench loomed quickly in front of him. The Forlorn Hope was hotly engaged in slaughtering the archers who faced them. The strange conical hats worn by the Okinese troops were scattered everywhere here and he crushed one beneath his feet. His breathing was ragged now and his chest hurt but he did not pause to help the Forlorn Hope, instead passing by them at a run and making his way toward the third trench. 

An archer stood and took aim, the tall bow drawing back until the arrow touched the archers ear. The man loosed and Taketora felt the arrow whip past his face, almost jerking his head sideways. He was so close. He gave a final scream of rage and then hurled himself on the archer. The man had thrown down his bow and drawn a longsword but it would do him no good. Taketora's katana knocked the sword aside and he hacked down, severing the mans shoulder from his body. Blood sheeted the stone and the archer collapsed with a scream as Taketora looked for his next enemy. 

A crossbow bolt slammed into the stone nearby before bouncing crazily away down the trench. He looked up to see men leaning over the upper lip of the stone to take aim. Desperately he threw himself to the side, striking his head painfully on a rocky overhang as he did. Two more bolts flashed through the space where he had been standing, one ricocheting upward to hit a man behind him in the groin. The man went down with a horrible moan, clutching at his manhood.

Hands pulled Taketora to his feet as his soldiers surrounded him. He appreciated the help but now was not the time to be saving clumsy officers.

"Go! Forget me, I am fine!" He snarled the words at the samurai who had pulled him upright. The man nodded, his teeth bared in some horrible grin, his eyes wild, before turning to charge along the line of the trench. The fighting was intensifying as the Okinese commander fed his reserves into the chaos. Blades flashed in the sunlight, the keen edges glittering as men killed each other. They killed each other with swords, spears, rocks, and even their bare hands, as they fought in the confines of the trench. This was true warfare, not that so often portrayed in stories and legends. This was gutter fighting as men clawed at each other and heaved in a desperate struggle for victory.

The Forlorn Watch was gone, or at least he assumed they were, he had seen none of them since the second trench. His own centre column was hotly engaged and he could see that the Okinese commander had chosen his positions more expertly than Taketora had anticipated, or been able to see at a distance. 

The stones scattered across the ridge had forced his men into a natural funnel and while the front ranks of his troops fought, the rear ranks were easy pickings for the crossbowmen above. The Akaiba needed to break through or they would all die in the trench as the Okinese spearmen formed ranks and stabbed down at his men as they tried to claw their way up the far side of the trench. Already the bottom of the trench was a treacherous mix of bodies from both sides. Blood had pooled in small bowls everywhere and it added to the slickness. 

Taketora waded into his men, pushing his way to the front until he stood among the men about to leap into the trench, preparing to force the Okinese back. A crossbow bolt slammed into his pauldron and lodged there, luckily missing his skin. He snarled again and picked up a spear from among the dead, stabbing it at the legs of the defenders. He was still stabbing it when something heavy smashed into his helmet, knocking him to the floor of the trench and blinding him to all else. He heard a cheer from the defenders, cheers of victory. 

It was not until after the battle he learnt what had happened. Just as the rock had been hurled from above to crush his helmet, Masanori had arrived. He had been commanding the right hand column and his men had swept the defenders there aside with ease. The natural terrain had been steep but no natural funnel had forced his men into a death trap. They killed the Okinese who faced them and then began to work their way toward the centre of the trench, arriving just as the stone struck down Taketora.

The samurai had given a wordless howl of fury and launched themselves on the Okinese as Masanori and his men arrived on their flank. The Okinese held bravely and more men died amid the stones, but they were outnumbered and outflanked. They broke within minutes, fleeing back up the ramps and stairs that led into the main fortress.

Akaiban troops flooded through the gaps torn in the Okinese line and stormed the catapult positions. The engineers pleaded for their lives and then screamed as they were hurled from the heights and into the chasms below. Survivors were hunted through the cunningly carved stone walkways and galleries. Men still died on both sides as small units of Okinese fought to the death using whatever means they could. 

Taketora knew none of this until his men dragged him from the trench and doused him with cold water from a well abandoned by the defenders. He sat up abruptly, coughing water and cursing them all soundly until the pain in his head forced him to quiet himself. His helmet was gone, crushed into nothing by the heavy stone. Luckily for him it had been a glancing hit. Blood had clotted over one eye and he was forced to claw at the dried crust, peeling it away so he could at last see again.

The Okinese banner was gone and the gold dragon of Akaiba fluttered from the topmost catapult platform. He staggered to his feet, none of his men daring to offer help, and looked north. He could see survivors of the garrison fleeing through the stones, their weapons and armour thrown aside to aid in their flight. Hundreds of them. He was thankful they had run, though the numbers did not concern him. The armies of Okin had become little but a shell of their former glory as they scrapped the last young men into their ranks and sent them into battle little to no training. It was the sign of a desperate enemy, and even a poorly trained man could still kill.

He took stock of the men around him. He could see dozens of red armoured corpses strewn about the rocky slopes and among the trenches. Dozens more were arranged in lines as the Runelord moved among them to administer healing, or the mercy kill if a soldier warranted it. The smell of violent death was everywhere, the blood deep in some places, and carrion birds already hoped among the dead. Soldiers moved among the stones, collecting trophies, armour and weapons from the dead. Even their own dead would be stripped before they were burned. 

Masanori was standing quietly nearby, his swords neatly arrayed in his sash. He didn't say a word as he held out Taketora's own sword, he didn't even know he had dropped it in the fighting. 

"Well done, Masanori." Taketora said with a bow. The bow was low, far lower than one might normally expect and he heard the soldiers around him suck in their breath at the great honour given to Masanori.

Masanori looked stunned as he returned the bow, slightly lower as was appropriate. "I only did my duty, sire."

"And you did it well. All of you!" Taketora raised his voice now so that every man nearby might hear him. Even the wounded managed to straighten their backs as he said the words. High praise indeed from a Hatamoto. 

Then, incredibly, he bowed to them all. There was a hushed silence and then every man returned the bow and held it until he turned away so that they would not see the smile on his face. 

There was much to do and little time to do it. They would need to continue the attack, though a different regiment would be brought forward for that purpose. The Okinese dead would be stripped of anything useful before their bodies were simply tossed off the ridge and into the rocks below the fortress. The Akaiban dead, nearly forty of them, were gathered together in a sheltered area to be burned. The walking wounded began their decent at once toward the main army encampment far below. The rest would follow with the main body of the regiment when they had been relieved. 

Taketora could already see his relief winding its way up the narrow goat tracks toward him. He would be glad to be among the trees again, to feel the warm breeze and enjoy the scent of life once more. He would allow his regiment one day of bliss in the trees and local hot springs before he began preparing them for the next step of the campaign. He would have to report to the Shogun of course but Ayeka was well known for letting his commanders fight their regiments as they saw fit. He would likely listen carefully, perhaps ask a question or two, and then dismiss Taketora. 

The battle was less than half a day old when the ridge was empty once more. Only the great columns of carrion birds that had come to feed on the dead gave any hint of the violence that had taken place there. It was a battle fought for nothing in the middle of nowhere. Well, not nothing, it had driven the Okinese from their last high mountain refuge. They would feel the noose tightening. The end was nigh. All that remained was to finish the fight and Taketora wondered how many more would die before that end came.[/hider]

[hider=Desperation]
[center][h3]Desperation[/h3][/center]

Crown Prince Heo Jeong would be the last of his line and he knew with certainty that his time was coming to an end. He was sitting alone in what amounted to his throne room, little more than a large hut made of animal skins and stiff bamboo. It was a far cry from the ancient Okin capital of Pusan, the City of Golden Spires, a city now ruled by Akaiba, a city he had never actually been to. He had seen the fine paintings and heard the stories but it had fallen shortly after he was born, his mother and father fleeing in the night to escape capture. 

Legend had it that his father had looked back on the capital and wept. His mother had scorned him, saying instead "Why weep like a child over what you could not defend as a man?"

What sort of legacy did that leave him? The shame his father had felt had been passed down to his son and stained the family for all time. Thankfully his mother had died when he was six and that at least put an end to their daily fighting. He privately suspected his father might have poisoned her. Just another dishonour on his family name.

His father had retreated into the hills, leaving Heo Jeong to command the armies in the plains and, for a time, he was able to hold the Akaiba at bay. With the aid of his Vai allies he had fought the Akaiba to a standstill, or so he had thought. News had reach him of their attack into the mountains and the capture of one stronghold after another. He had not stopped them, he had only delayed them.

The wind rattled at the tent again and he pulled his thick robe tighter around him. A piece of paper at his feet was sent flipping through the air and he ignored it. Everything had changed with the arrival of that paper. His father was dead. Killed in the high mountains by Akaiban samurai. He doubted they even knew who they had killed, his father had long ago begun dressing as a common soldier and seeking death. It seemed he had found it.

He was King. King of a broken Kingdom, of starving armies forced to live off the land in the north where the largest town he could claim was a mere thousand souls. His allies, he knew, had lost faith in him. They only supported him now in the hopes of keeping a small slice of Okin between them and the rampaging armies of Akaiba.

His fingers curled around the edge of his robe and he tucked his feet underneath him so that he was sitting crosslegged on his throne. Throne, what a farce. It was a carved wooden chair, there were village headmen with larger furniture in their homes.

He had dismissed his advisors while he read the paper from the mountains. They were hardly the clever young men who once advised his Grandfather. They were the men to old to leave, men who sought to somehow line their own pockets with what gold they could before the end came. There were certainly one or two who stayed out of loyalty but desperate times tended to reveal the true soul of a man and many of his advisors had been found wanting.

Hours, no, days, had passed while he sat on that wooden chair trying to decide what could be done. The slow march of doom was upon him, of that he had no doubt. His family, a wife and four children, had been captured by the Akaiba six months previously in a lightning cavalry raid on their caravan. Already he could imagine them encased in some fortress somewhere learning how to be proper little Akaiba. There had been no demand for ransom, the Shogun knew he had no money. There had been no demand to use them as hostages, everyone knew Okin was going to fall. 

The eventual reality had come to him the day before he received word of his fathers death. He would surrender. What remained of his people survived in pitiful conditions and the soldiers who still served their King were dispirited and tired, most of their families had been captured and when you left a man with nothing to fight for but his King, they tended to find somewhere else to be. 

Perhaps one final battle. He would lead from the front and be cut down by the enemy, a heroic death, something more than a whimper for the histories to remember him by. But what would that leave for his family? He thought of his children being raised by a stranger, an Akaiban, and what that would mean for their future. A future where they might forget who he was and never know his face. He would become just a name on a scroll. 

King Heo Jeong, the last of his line, the last ruler of Okin, pulled his robes over his head and wept.[/hider]