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The throne room of Shen Fung
Phil I. Stine sat at his desk looking out the window of his office. His unblinking eyes looked beyond the trestle supports of the elevated ‘L’ to an opening in a building across the street. In his mind’s eye the pedestrians hustling along the sidewalk to their business-lunch rendezvous were fading in the glare of the midday light. There gait slowed to a crawl, picking their way amongst the bodies that strewn the battle field. Only but one or two yellow uniformed soldiers remained of the Emperor’s once proud third battalion. The battalion that he had commanded; that he had led to their slaughter at the hands of that accursed foe, Bloodwasher. He had no explanation except kismet…luck. “Those damned dice! The battle should have gone differently, it was so well planned! Where was the air support? Shot down, no doubt, by a fortuitous volley from the enemy aa cannon. Victory should have been mine!” And so ‘Captain Chu’ tormented himself. He knew it was to no avail and that he must soon give an accounting of his failure to his liege.Phil’s knees shook in time with the passing of the ‘L’ on the tracks outside that his eyes did not see. They were transfixed on the marble doorway to the bank building below. The door that he must pass through, the entry to the throne room of Shen Fung.
The captain stood at attention or, at least, the pretense of attention. In reality he was shaking like a leaf on a cherry tree in the face of an autumn wind. Quite a novel sensation really for a veteran of so many battles. Sweat dripped from beneath his helm and into his eye, obscuring the image of his liege who was fervently pacing to and fro in front of him. He knew why he had been summoned to the palace. He himself had read the reports. Had they not come from several capitulating sources, he’d have not thought them true. But the reconnaissance was irrefutable. He searched his reason for an explanation. But there wasn’t one. Nor would venturing any supposition help to bolster his position at this moment. He knew his place and would only speak when spoken too.
>"Captain Chu…"
>"Sir!"
>"You are aware of the reports from the West?"
>"Yes, Liege! I have been in contact with…"
>"I know with whom you have been in contact! I was referring to an awareness of their portent; that The Bear is moving once again in concert with the occidental infidels."
The captain stared straight ahead. Expostulation was useless. A curse upon the families of the occidental insurrectionists! Why had he not wiped them from the face of the Earth when he had the chance? But the chance was gone and now, his own chance...his kismet was being played out slowly by the pacing of his liege, like the swing of a pendulum marking the time left in his subservient existence.
>"And do you, captain (the word drawled like an anathema from the mouth of his liege contorted into a sneer) know what name is running before these reports like the blood of our people in the tank ruts on the battle field? HMMM, DO YOU?!?"
>"Yes, my Liege."
>"Speak!"
>" 'Bloodwasher,' Liege."
The tall figure stopped his pacing to stand squarely before the captain. But it wasn’t the Lord’s stature that commanded attention, nor was it his renowned prowess upon the battle field that melted the courage from the most seasoned of soldiers. It was the eyes. Cold, gray icicles that pierced into your brain befuddling your resolve, your thoughts, clouding your very reason for being. Transfixed by the gaze of his liege, the captain could do nothing but stare into those unforgiving pools of molten steel.
>"Captain, you were entrusted with the command of our legions at the end of the war. You had one task which was to eradicate our enemy from the battle field. You have not only failed in this, you have failed to protect your countrymen whose lives are once again at peril from the accursed allied forces. You have shamed your ancestors!"
The captain tasted salt on his lip. Whether from the sweat that drenched his body or from an errant tear that had somehow found its way through the armor of his will for composure, he could not tell. He knew what was coming, what would now be required in atonement of his failure. He thought of his wife, Mai...his children; it was almost more than he could bear. The blade of his tanto was hard against his left side. Situated just above that of his katana, it was just as sharp, just as deadly. Its presence promised a quick and almost painless remuneration for his ineptitude. His lord had turned and was approaching the throne set high upon the dais in the center of the room. The lord sat down with a formal stiffness. From aside the dais, the lord retrieved a long section of bamboo, shod at each end with worked gold. It was the Rod of Doom with which rulers had pronounced sentence for centuries out of mind. The gray eyes shot holes in the soldier as his knees nearly buckled from the shaking that wracked his body. Still he held on to the last vestiges of his dignity. How would his son remember him...
Almost as if in answer to his thoughts, the liege spoke. The words came out in measured timbre, each a battering ram slamming against the reality of the moment.
>"How old is your son, Captain?"
My son, the captain’s thoughts raced? Why does he ask after my son? Oh honored ancestors, what have I done? My failure is my own, not my son’s. Oh please let this judgment not stretch to my son.
>"Eight."
The word croaked from his dry throat like the crumbling of dry leaves covering the floor of the family tomb.
>"He will be entering the military school next year?"
>"Yes, my Lord."
Will be? Thank merciful goodness! At least he is safe. There was a long silence as he waited under the gaze of his liege. Waited for the pronouncement that would prematurely end his otherwise successful career on the battlefield. The seconds stretched like honey oozing from a crack in a porcelain jar. The pounding of his heart hammered in his chest, the sound of his blood could be heard rushing by his ears. Perhaps the last time he would hear that sound. He waited...
>"Then you will want to have defeated our foe by next Fall. Dismissed Captain."
Dumfounded he stared straight ahead, not daring to flinch nor even blink lest this movement somehow break the mercy spell. Like a goloem, a clay automaton, he bowed stiffly. Turning slowly on his heel he began the seemingly laborious task of walking. Step by step he moved his way towards the throne room doors. Outside the sounds of nightingales warbling in the cherry trees wafted into the throne room like the scent of the blossoms amongst which they flew. He had no sensation of feeling, only numbness at the realization that death, harikari, had brushed past him and was gone. He stared straight ahead as he made his way from the chamber, out onto the verandah surrounding the palace. He no longer could hear the birds though, now and then, he could still see their beautiful lithe forms flitting too and fro from out of the corner of his diminishing vision. One foot moved subconsciously in front of the other. The captain crossed the threshold of the throne room, turned to move along the verandah feeling sick and faint.
“Phil; hey, are you OK?” The question startled Phil from his day dream. The secretary stood in the doorway to his office with a concerned look on her face. “You don’t look so good.” His forehead felt wet and clammy. The ‘L’ rumbled past again like the growl of a Stalin tank cresting a nearby hill. Phil jumped and glanced outside to see nothing but Summer time in Chicago. “Yeah, I’m OK,” he replied distantly. “You promised to take me for chili dogs,” Peggy reminded. “The way you daydream all day, I wanna cash in now before the boss fires you,” she chided in her flapper-girl drawl and turned heading for the hallway door, her not-unattractive backside compelling him to follow.
So begins the stories and hallucinations of Phil I. Stine, determined to be the most avid player of Axis and Allies known to the world of gaming.
SHEN FUNG