The Dusty Ground
WARNING: This fiction contains spoilers from SoB00 to SoB04. Read at your own risk.
Moto Su-Tai’s chomchog was impressive. It was elevated from the ground and rested upon a cart which could only be carried by twenty oxen. However, today it rested in the center of Enkaku Province. It had taken Moto Achmed no time to find his lord’s camp. As nomadic as it was, everyone in Enkaku Province always knew where to find their lord.
Moto Achmed entered the chomchog bearing a large basket in his arms. His lord was relaxing with his court, talking with his advisors, while a few heiminin servants sang songs in the corner. Su-Tai despised the quiet, and music was an almost constant presence in his court. The place smelled of tobacco. No one was smoking at present, but the smoke had long ago embedded itself into the walls and become a permanent resident. To many Rokugani, it smelled crass and undesirable. To Moto Achmed, it smelled like home.
The guards at the entrance to the chomchog had already checked his basket, and he had left his weapons in his yurt, so there was no wait as Moto Achmed was escorted by his lord’s karo to the back of the chamber.
Moto Su-Tai looked over his samurai and Achmed laid the basket in front of him and prostrated himself in front of his lord. A few whispered words from the mouth of the karo into Su-Tai’s ear and the lord smiled. “Rise, Moto Achmed-san and sit here with me. I wish to hear tales of the East and North.”
Achmed rose to a seated position and spoke. “Honored Moto-sama, at your bequest I have travelled the lands of Rokugan and done good work and good deeds in your name. In the lands of our brothers the Dragon, I fought off a gaijin force looking to lay waste to Rokugani towns and villages.” Achmed removed the top from the basket and reached into it. Out of the basket, he drew a pair of severed heads. “I present to you two of the heads of those gaijin.” He laid them on the floor of the chomchog.
“Impressive, Moto-san,” Moto Su-Tai told the samurai. “You will have to tell me more of that adventure later. What else have you done on your travels?”
Again, Achmed’s hands disappeared into the basket and drew out a jar. “In honor of the late Empress and in your name, I was sent to build a new shrine for the fallen Empress. I present to you some earth taken in the excavations made to build the shrine.”
“A task fit for a returned spirit, Moto-san,” Su-Tai said. “May her Empress’ blessings fall on us all.”
Moto Achmed again prostrated himself in front of his lord. “My lord Moto-sama, I present these things to you as tokens of the work you bade me complete in the Empire.”
Moto Su-Tai accepted the gifts, after the customary refusals and asked to hear these adventures in more detail. As Moto Achmed complied, the sky darkened as the day turned into evening and the sun set over the western horizon.
As the stories ended, Moto Achmed made to leave his lord’s presence, but Moto Su-Tai waved him to sit. “Tonight, we sing praises to our honored ancestors. All should join in this, and tomorrow, we will play games to remember our fallen Empress: Ulak Tartysh to celebrate her life, Kyz Kuumai to celebrate her marriage to our Emperor, Jumby Atmai to celebrate her skill, and the At Chabysh to celebrate the Void.” A cry of joy went up throughout the tent and a Moto bushi started singing a traditional Moto song, one that Moto Achmed knew well from his time in the Burning Sands. And so, the rest of the night came with song and revelry.
The next day, Moto Achmed approached Su-Tai’s karo. “Moto-sama, I must regretfully decline to participate in our lord’s games this day. I have been trained by the Crane in war, and due to such, I have never required a horse. Our lord, therefore, has wisely not given me one.”
A raucous laugh filled the air and Achmed turned to see Moto Su-Tai standing behind him. “But your lord will always provide, Moto-san. You will take one of my riding horses today. I insist upon it.”
Achmed knelt in front of his lord and thanked him for this honor. With that, the games began.
Ulak Tartysh was a team game, and the karo had separated out the teams quickly. From a yurt near the field, a goat carcass was carried out onto the field by two heimin. The goat had been decapitated, disemboweled, and had its legs chopped off the day prior. It had then been soaked in cold water for a day to toughen it.
The goal of the game was to carry the carcass around a flag at one end of the field, then throw it into the Circle of Justice to score a point. Competition was always fierce, as the samurai may use any force short of tripping the horse in order to thwart scoring attempts.
As the sport began, Achmed stayed back by the Circle, acting as a defense of sorts against the other competitors. The other team had the carcass and was circling around the flag. The whips and horses of Achmed’s teammates were right behind them. As the goat carrier neared the Circle, Achmed lashed out with his whip and tightened it around the other man’s wrist. The man lost control of the carcass and it landed in a thud just outside the Circle.
Achmed leapt towards the carcass and, with a surprisingly large burst of speed, beat the other horsemen to the goat. He grabbed it with one hand and hoisted it up. Then, with a sharp cry, he urged his horse towards the flag. Another horseman might have been able to keep ahead of the pack, but Achmed was not that proficient. The other team caught up and he found himself kicked and jostled by the other riders. Another horseman might have been able to withstand that, but Achmed was not that proficient. A rather forceful push shoved him sideways and Moto Achmed fell from the saddle and lost control of the goat’s carcass.
As he fell, Achmed was aware of two sensations. First, his hand was now empty. He had dropped the carcass. Second, his leg had gotten trapped in the stirrup and twisted horribly on the way down. The horse, caught up in the chase, would not slow down. Achmed knew that he had to get free of the stirrup or the horse would drag him to further injury. He grabbed the wakizashi on his belt and drew it in a swift motion and made to cut the stirrup. The leather broke free, but the motion caused his arm to slip and the wakizashi also imbedded itself deep into Achmed’s leg. The pain was unbearable, but Achmed bore it silently. But he had still failed. The carcass was gone, and he could not continue in the game.
Several hours later, Moto Achmed sat on a fallen log, checking the bandages on his wound, when Moto Su-Tai came up to him with the horse that Achmed had ridden. “Are you able to continue in the games?” Su-Tai asked the returned spirit.
Achmed dipped his head in shame. “Moto-sama, I am afraid that I cannot. Any time in the saddle could open the stitches and further the bleeding.”
Moto Su-Tai nodded. “Your initial strategy was sound, but you are not yet as proficient in the saddle as I expect of my samurai.” He handed the reins to Achmed. “Let your leg heal, and then train with this steed. The next time I see you, you will race in the At Chabysh, and you will place in the top ten.”
His words spoken, Moto Su-Tai turned and walked away, leaving his samurai prostrated in thanks to his lord.
