[FFML] [FanFic] [Ranma 1/2] [Crossover] Under Two Suns

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Under Two Suns

A Ranma 1/2 / Talislanta Cross-Over

Jeremy Harper

Disclaimer: Ranma 1/2 is the creation of Rumiko Takahashi. The World of Talislanta is the creation of Steven Michael Sechi. Both are used without permission.

"Through a veil of blue mist did I first behold an unknown realm, dreamlike and surreal, as if suffused in amberglow. At once it became my goal to explore this strange new world, and un-earth its ancient mysteries. And so I embarked upon a journey that would take me across a strange and exotic land known as... Talislanta."

>From the Chronicles of Talislanta, by Tamerlin the Mage

Chapter One: Death on the Dead River

Two suns burned a path high across the clear azure sky. Primal and serene, their brilliance unchallenged, the Greater Sun leading the way while the half as small Lesser Sun chased after, like a child clutching at its mother's skirts. They followed the same path East to West that they had followed since the Beginning, and would do so until the End, indifferent to the dramas enacted on the world below.

Beneath the suns a great canyon gouged the earth, snaking and winding from the Northwest to the Southeast as far as the naked eye could see. Half a mile wide and a hundred feet deep, it divided the shifting, shimmering desert sands to its west from the dry, parched hardpan and scrubs in the east. Once, not long ago, this vast chasm had been a mighty river, a concourse that ran out to the great oceans of the south. But in a mysterious catastrophe the inland sea that birthed it dried out. The river shriveled and died, and the canyon it left as its corpse was christened the Dead River. People and creatures both terrible and mundane still traveled its length, though now on foot or by steed instead of boat or current.

Shouts and curses echoed in the Dead River. The loud clash of swords reverberated against its dry walls. Now and again a death cry, high and piercing, shrieked out starkly over the cacophony. On a steep, narrow trail that ran up the Western massif one man fought against many. The many were a motley horde, tall, dirty and lean, their heads shaved hairless, save for long braided mustaches that drooped down from their lips. Their leathery, deeply creased skin was hued a pallid yellow, like old parchment, and they were nearly naked, dressed in only studded hide harnesses and filthy loincloths. They wielded evil-looking broadswords wrought from black iron, the blades curved, the edges cruelly serrated. These men were of the Za, a race of bandits, savage and pitiless, and they claimed the wild, empty lands as their own, preying upon on all they could catch. This band had been roaming the Dead River when they had come across a caravan of Djaffir, some twenty strong, traveling south towards the city of Kasmir. The Za attacked, and being outnumber almost two to one the Djaffir fled. Their camel-like aht-ra ran swifter on the rocky, uneven ground than the Za's steeds, but the bandits compensated by whipping their equine equ mounts into a frenzy. Bow fire was exchanged. Two Za were struck; with cries of pain and fear they tumbled off their equ and were trampled by their brethren. A blood-chilling ululation rose from the Za. "BLOOD FOR BLOOD!" they screamed as one, and spurred their mounts on to greater exertions.

One of the Za shouted a warning. Riding among the Djaffir he spotted a figure dressed in a dark robe, turned on his aht-ra so to face his pursuers. He was tracing a sigil in the air, his finger trailing a glittering black light. Another Za swiftly notched an arrow and aimed his horn bow at the mage, but he was not swift enough. The robed man finished his sigil with a flourish and struck it with the flat of his hand. It shattered into a shower of black and silver motes, and the lead Za stopped stock still, the feet of their equ rooted to the ground. Some were thrown headlong from the sudden stop, while others fell when their brethren running directly behind crashed into them with terrific force. The Za milled about in a confused knot, some swearing vociferously, others groaning from the pain of broken bones, while their erstwhile victims raced out of sight. Finally those who could still ride and had their equ un-cursed broke off and continued the chase, leaving the uninjured but unhorsed to tend to the ensorcelled steeds and the wounded. They were almost insane with rage, swearing great and terrible oaths that they would drink the blood of those accursed and cowardly Djaffir before the suns had set.

Within five minutes the Za caught a fleeting glimpse of the Djaffir, leading their Aht-ra up a narrow trail that wound up the Dead River's Western wall and out into the Kasmiran Desert. They were out of sight by the time the Za reached the base of the trail. It was too steep to be ridden on, so the Za dismounted and lead their equ up it. A quarter of the way up a bowstring twanged resonantly. The lead Za fell on his face with a gurgle, an arrow through his throat. His equ reared up on its hind legs in panic and overbalanced, falling off the trail and down to the canyon floor. A second arrow flew, and the next Za fell to a knee with a curse, clutching at the shaft puncturing his shoulder. A third arrow missed its mark, striking a stone embedded on the trail with a metallic smack. The Za panicked slightly, foolishly not having expected the Djaffir to set an ambush for them, but they were too experienced and too bloodthirsty to be put into rout. With curses they forced their equ to turn around while they used them for cover, crouching low behind the equ's bodies for cover. They retreated swiftly and in good order down the trail. A second Za died, shot through the base of the skull. He collapsed with a surprised grunt, his body trodded upon and kicked by his comrades. The wounded Za staggered behind, swearing at the others to wait up, and was shot between the shoulder blades. He stumbled and fell, rolling down the trail, stopping when he reached the base of the incline.

The surviving Za retreated out of bow range, convening to discuss the situation. They scanned the western precipice but spotted no sign of their attackers. One Za surmised that the archers had either retreated or were lying out of sight. A large stone close to the top of the trail offered excellent cover for an ambusher and a safe vantage point to observe unseen. The bandits debated their options with loud violence. They were too vulnerable on the trail, but to they were loath to give up their hunt without gaining redress for the injuries and indignities they had suffered. Finally caution gave way to the desire for vengeance and loot. They would rush up the trail on foot and brave the arrows of their enemies. If the Djaffir had fled in the interim they would retrieve their equ and give chase. And if they decided to stand their ground...

"Blood for blood!" screamed the Za, raising their jagged, black iron broadswords above their heads. "Death to the Oathbreakers!" They charged the trail and began to ascend. It was wide enough for them to go up double-file safely. They climbed as quickly as the incline allowed, crouched down slightly to make themselves harder to hit, their swords held out before them to ward against arrows. No one shot at them, and they grinned ferally at each other in relief. They were nearly three quarters of the way up when a figure appeared at the top of trail and began to descend towards them. The Za stopped in surprise. It was a man, all alone as far as they could tell. He was dressed like a Djaffir, wearing loose-fitting white shirt and trousers, a white veiled cap on his head and brown leather gloves and riding boots on his hands and feet. But he did not wear the traditional fetish mask the Djaffir affected, instead having a white scarf covering his nose and mouth. Nor was he armed with the scimitar the Djaffir preferred. In his right hand he held clenched a sword with a long, thin blade, single-edged and curved slightly, wrought from a silvery-gray metal none of the Za had ever seen before.

The Za leered at the man, laughing uproariously. He did not react at all, but continued towards them. They could see his eyes now; as blue as the sky, almost preternaturally calm, showing not the slightest hint of anger, fear or trepidation. He stopped ten feet from the Za, looked long and hard at them, and with the tip of his strange sword drew a line in the dirt. He took a step back and settled into a fighting stance, his blade pointed at the Za. The Za quieted for a moment, then howled at his defiance. The two in the lead slapped the flats of their broadswords against the leather bracers on their arms and charged.

The lone swordsman drew back his blade, waiting for his foes to reach him. The Za on his right did so first, with the other two steps behind. He struck, his sword blurring and flashing in the sunlight. It cut the Za across the chest, cleaving through his studded harness like paper, chopping his ribs like rotten sticks, slicing his heart in twain. He dropped his sword and fell down his hands and knees, clutching futilely at the wound, dying within seconds. The sword flashed again, and the Za on his left reeled backwards, crashing into the man behind him. He grasped at his throat as blood fountained spectacularly from it. A third Za rushed forward, lashing out with an overhand stroke. The man stepped back and parried the blow, their blades ringing out from the impact. The Za attempted to press his advantage, but misfortune occurred and he tripped on the corpse of his comrade. He lurched forward uncontrollably, trying to right himself. His opponent lashed out with a hooking kick that caught him on the temple and propelled him over the trail's edge. He shrieked all the way down, flailing his arms, his cries cut off abruptly by a sickening thud. Another Za - the one the Za with the cut throat had staggered into - threw the mortally injured bandit aside and charged, a passionate flood of swears and obscene imprecations gushing from his mouth; the Za the man kicked off the trail had been his brother. They crossed swords twice, and on the third pass the man cut the broadsword out of the Za's hand, then followed through with a swing to the side of his head. The Za crumpled without a sound.

The Za band paused for a moment as they surveyed the carnage before them. Four of their number had fallen in a span of less than ten seconds, slain by this one, lone, miserable swordsman. They howled in outrage, frothing at the mouth. Their eternal war cry, "Blood for blood!" echoed through the Dead River. They surged towards the man, driven nearly insane by their anger and desire for reckoning. Again he waited for them, and when the lead Za reached him he began to kill. One Za fell, then another; a third slumped unconscious against the canyon wall, blood gushing from the great wound in his side; two more died, killed by one awesome strike from the silver-gray sword. A sixth rushed in too close. The man sidestepped him and broke his ribs with the hilt of his sword, pushing off the trail to plummet yowling to the Dead River's floor.

"Fall back!" one of the Za roared at his fellows. He was slightly taller then the others, wearing a parrying bracer on his left arm instead of the traditional tribal wristblade. Around his neck was a red iron torc, a rune denoting an enchantment of physical potency engraved upon its clasp. His name was Zamahkel, and he was the band's chieftain. "Fall back you brain-dead scrubs! Use your bows. Shoot him down like a heat-crazed dog!" Two Za engaged their lone enemy while the rest retreated, a few nearly tripping in their haste. They had gone fifteen feet back down the trail when four Za sheathed their swords and unslung their stout horn short bows. Two fell to one knee so their fellows behind them could shoot over their heads. They notched arrows to string and pulled back, taking aim and waiting for their opportunity. The two warriors fighting the man had lasted longer than the others, for they were attacking cautiously, in order to buy the bowman time. But they too fell: one dropping to his knees as he clutched at his cleft forehead, the other half-falling off the trail. His upper body dangled over the precipice. The archers fired as one, their arrows shot in an arching, lethal volley. The man twisted his body, lashing out with his sword. He cut one shaft from the air and miraculously dodged two more, but the fourth seemed to score home, striking him in the side and staggering him backwards. The Za let out a raucous cheer, but it died half-uttered when he plucked the barbed-headed arrow from him unbloodied and tossed it away. It had caught on one of the loose folds of his shirt, no more.

The archers frantically reached for their quivers. The swordsman charged forward and leapt high into the air, sword gripped double-handed, raised above his head, his legs tucked in. One Za got his arrow notched quicker than the others. He lifted his bow to shoot, but the man landed in front of him and struck, cleaving straight through his shoulder and down into his chest. In a lightning blur the man pulled his sword free and struck at the next closest archer, who had dropped his bow and was fumbling at the hilt of his broadsword. Silvery metal flashed and the Za's head jumped from his shoulders in a gout of gore. The last two archers threw down their bows and drew their broadswords, but died before they could raise them, cut down in three swift strikes.

A great groan arose from the surviving Za. As one they turned and retreated down the trail, leaving behind nearly half their number dead on the stones and dirt. The man did not pursue, instead backing slowly up the incline, watching them intently. Reaching the canyon floor a few turned and half-heartily shot their bows at him. He easily evaded the shafts, jumping up and away in short hops or knocking them out of the air with his sword. The bowmen cursed him and fled, joining up with their fellows where their equ were tethered. They swiftly mounted rode away to the northeast, not looking back, muttering and gashing their teeth, crushed utterly by defeat. All had gone, save for the leader, Zamahkel. He sat on his equ, a scarred and ugly black-maned beast, vile of temper and thought. He looked up at the massif trail and stared long and hard at the lone swordsman who had incredibly routed his ferocious band. Zamahkel's anger was great, seething within him like a volcano about to erupt. He was tempted to dismount and challenge him, but ultimately decided against it. Momentum and terrain favored his enemy too greatly.

"Djaffir!" Zamahkel called out, voice harsh and graven. "Djaffir, what is your name?" The man did not answer, just looked down from the heights at the Za chieftain. "What is your name, Djaffir," he repeated. "Or are you afraid to tell me?"

"I am not a Djaffir," the man called back. He spoke in the High Mode of Talisan speech, which the Za could understand but did not use, considering it effeminate. His accent was strange. Zamahkel had wandered far and wide across the continent of Talislanta, and had heard many inflections of speech, but he could not guess this swordsman's homeland. "But I am proud to call the Djaffir my friends."

Zamahkel sneered. "Well, Not-A-Djaffir, then what are you?" The man did not answer. "Fine, hide behind your cowardly anonymity. It will not save you. I am Zamahkel, war-chieftain of the Za, great amongst Landborne, Not-A-Djaffir, and to you this oath I swear. One day I will find you in a place where luck does not favor you. There I shall cut your still beating heart out of your chest, crush it in my hands and drink your blood. I will have blood for blood - retribution and weregild for the harms you inflicted on my people this day. By the great Tirshata I swear I will make this come to pass, and not once have I ever failed to fulfill such a vow." With that Zamahkel spat in his enemy's direction and rode off to join his men.

The swordsman watched Zamahkel diminish into the distance. He stood motionless until the Za had disappeared from sight, and once gone let out a loud, deep sigh. He leaned forward slightly, resting his free hand on his left knee, taking in deep breaths. He straightened, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and looked with distaste at the gore staining his sword. He wiped it clean on the cloak of a slain Za and sheathed it in the lacquered black scabbard thrust in his waist-sash. The man looked one last time down the Dead River before turning on his heel and walked up the trail. When he passed the Za corpse hanging precariously over the trail edge he gave it a kick and sent it tumbling to the rocks below.

At the top of the trail he retrieved his horn bow and quiver from behind the large stone where he had stashed them and walked out into the Kasmiran Desert, the hot white sands shifting underneath his boots. Not far away, standing un-tethered before the first ridge of dunes was a saddled equ. They were strange creatures, a particular amalgamation of mammal and reptile, quadrupeds roughly the size of a terrestrial horse. The scales of its reticulated hide were deep green, the bright sunlight making them shine with a polished emerald opulence. A long mane of shining silvery hair ran down its long neck. It shifted its stance slightly, digging its tough clawed paws into the sand, its reptilian tail lashing once, thumping the dune with a muffled thump. It cocked its head towards the man, locking a beady black eye on him. Under its curved snout its lips pulled back in a weird approximation of a smile, and it lolled out a coarse tongue.

"Well," spoke the equ in a warbling accent. "You survived."

"Yep," the man agreed laconically. "Disappointed?"

"Of course I am. I was looking forward to a peaceful, leisurely stroll back home. Now I gotta bust my back hauling your fat ass to Kasmir."

"Ungrateful swayback," the man rejoined genially. "If it weren't for me feeling sorry for you, you'd be feed for the Thralls' war lizards down in Taz."

"Bah! You're the ingrate, boy. And obviously you're blind to boot, if you can't see what a magnificent specimen of equanhood I am. Note the brilliant sheen of my scales, the luxuriousness of my mane, the sublimely developed musculature of my flanks. I am a paragon of the equan breed, much too good for the likes of you."

The swordsman just laughed. "The way you talk, sometimes, reminds me of a guy I use to know. At least you don't go around spouting bad romantic poetry, Equaramos." He set his bow in a bowcase hanging from the saddle, hung the quiver next to it and took up a canteen, uncorking it. He pulled his scarf down underneath his chin and took a small sip of water. He held it in his mouth, letting it trickle slowly down his parched throat. He sighed quietly in satisfaction and took a second, slightly larger and quicker pull. Equaramos gazed at the canteen longingly.

"Waiting patiently on the hot desert sands is thirsty work," he commented.

"Killing is thirstier work," the man answered. But he corked his canteen and hung it from his sash. He grabbed the large water-skin hanging from the saddle and proceeded to water Equaramos. The equ drank noisily and sloppily, slobbering water from the sides of his mouth. "Hey, be careful," the man chided, "don't waste it. We're gonna be out here for at least another day." Equaramos pulled away from the skin, licking his mouth and nodding.

"Ah, that hit the spot," he said. "I feel better now." The man stoppered the skin and replaced on its saddle hook. He turned to face the Dead River, gazing out at the far horizon, leaning back against Equaramos. He could faintly discern in the distance where the hardpan east of the canyon gave way to grassland.

"How many Za did you kill?" Equaramos asked.

"Seventeen."

Equaramos whistled in admiration. "That shriveled little bloodsucker is going to drop from apoplexy when you try to claim a bounty on seventeen Za."

"Aban isn't that bad."

"He's a Kasmiran. They're all misers and niggards. You have better chance of finding a chaste Muse than you do a Kasmiran who likes being parted from his gold. He's going to throw a fit." Equaramos paused for a moment. "And come to think of it so is Djkarul, when he realizes that you stayed behind to play games with the Za."

"The caravan needed time to escape. I got it for them."

"Ogront shit!" Equaramos snapped. "With the lead Aban bought us with that glyph we were gonna outrun those bastards easily. The Za don't got the stomach for an extended chase, not this close to Kasmir. They're too afraid of a Thrall far patrol stumbling across them and chopping them to mulch." He looked towards the south, where the city of Kasmir lay. "Hells, I'm surprised Djkarul hasn't come back looking for you."

"His first responsibility is to his tribe. Getting his men to safety comes before trying to rescue an outsider like me." He grinned arrogantly. " Not that he'll ever need to."

Equaramos looked at his master and friend sourly. "That don't mean he doesn't care about you. That don't mean he isn't gonna worry." The swordsman shrugged, and the equ shook his head.

"At times I believe - Creator curse me if I don't - that you deliberately try to go get yourself killed."

"You're reading too much into this. I'm not trying to commit suicide. I just hate Za and I was covering the caravan's retreat. There was no way they could have killed me, not with the trail keeping them from coming at me en mass." His expression became sardonic. "Besides, I'm the best fighter that's ever lived. Nothing's ever gonna kill me. I've never been beaten." Self-mockery and great pain was evident in his voice.

"You are obsessed," said Equaramos, seemingly going on a tangent, speaking with the attitude of someone continuing a long-standing argument. "You are obsessed with a woman that you're never gonna see again, and it makes you do stupid things. You gotta get over her, boy. It isn't healthy!" The swordsman did not answer. Equaramos shook his head and spat on the sands in disgust. They stood together in silence. Equaramos spoke again. "Hey Ranma, are we gonna stand around all day until some great big bugging critter crawls out of the Dead River and tries to eat us, or are we gonna get going?"

A wind blew from the east. Ranma Saotome pulled off his Djaffiran headdress, shaking out his thick mane of black hair and long braided pigtail, sighing as the wind played across his face, through his hair, cooling his body and his fevered thoughts. He wiped the sweat from his brow and re-donned his veiled cap. "We're going," he answered. With practiced ease he climbed onto Equaramos's saddle and together they rode south along the Dead River, toward the tall, windowless towers of Kasmir.

//////////

Author's Notes

Over the past few years I've run across several Ranma fan fictions sending our pig-tailed protagonist to various fantastic worlds, from both literary fantasy and role-playing games. Generic Dungeons & Dragons settings, Forgotten Realms, Dragonlance, the world of the Wheel of Time, even, gods save us, Rifts. Being a long time reader of fantasy and player of rpgs and a (relatively) recent writer of R 1/2 fan fiction, I liked the idea of such crossovers and decided to try my hand at one. But, at the risk of sounding like a snob, I wanted to place the story in a setting with a bit more class and/or originality than what has been used before.

I first considered sending Ranma and Akane to the gorgeous and decadent lands of Jack Vance's Dying Earth, but ultimately rejected the idea, feeling that there was no way I could do the setting justice: I don't have the vocabulary or, I fear, the imagination. I thought about using Greg Stafford's Glorantha, but as much as I enjoy the themes of the setting, I don't have a good enough grasp of the world proper; it just does not capture my creative interests. I do have some stories planned in my head that incorporate creatures and gods from Glorantha that I might write some day, though considering how slow and lazy I am when it comes to writing who knows when they'll see the light of day. Shifting to a science fiction theme, ala Jamie Wilde, I thought of writing a fusion utilizing Cordwainer Smith's story The Game of Cats, Rats and Dragons, and even got a little of it written down before abandoning it, the story falling victim to my own inadequacies as a writer. And finally, before I really knew much of Talislanta, I heavily considered fusing Ranma 1/2 with Professor M.A.R. Barker's Empire of the Petal Throne. I still like this idea, and may attempt it in the future. The exotic, Asian flavor of the world of Tekumel fits Ranma 1/2 better than almost any other fantasy setting.

I am but a recent fan of the Talislanta milieu. I had heard several good things about it on RPGNet, the role-playing game forum and website I frequent. On a trip into Boston I picked the game on an impulse buy and when I finally sat down to read it fell in love with Talislanta almost at once. As unique and detailed as Glorantha and Tekumel, yet much more comprehensible to my (perhaps simple) mind. I did not have to fight my way through a giant tangle of oftentimes-contradictory history and myths, or struggle with very unusual terms, words and language. I had found at last (what was to me) the ideal world to set my crossover.

The Chronicles of Tamerlin quoted at the beginning of the story was written by Steven Michael Sechi.

As always I am interested in your comments and criticism. Send any such to DorianVal@aol.com, and I'll try to respond in short order.

If you have gotten this far I thank you very much for your time and tolerance.

Jeremy Harper