[FFML] [FanFic] [Ranma 1/2] Against the Bone Prologue (Rough)

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Against the Bone

A Ranma � Fan Fiction

Jeremy Harper

Disclaimer � Ranma � is the creation of Rumiko Takahashi and is used without
permission.

Prologue

Three days after his defeat Herb's conquerors returned, marching into the bleak
cell beneath the Musk Citadel they imprisoned him in and seizing him. Herb fought back,
gasping and growling, but his efforts were feeble. He moved sluggishly, as if lead had
replaced the marrow in his bones; his sinews felt like wet, rotting string. He flailed at his
tormentors ineffectually, not bothering to attempt to use the powers that were his
birthright, for he could not access them. He could still sense the energy ambient to the
natural world, still see it flow and ebb in scintillating eddies that enmeshed the world in
an infinitely intricate lattice of ki, but he could not tap it. It was as if he were sheathed in
glass, capable of seeing all but of touching nothing. It maddened him to have a means of
escape and vengeance all around him but being unable to wield it. Herb howled in rage;
around his neck the queer white rosary grew heavy.

The conquerors ignored Herb's wrath with stoic single-mindedness. They gripped
him by his arms, their hands cold and hard, and forced-marched him out of the Citadel,
through the ruined, deserted town of his subjects. Herb quit his futile struggles. The
weight around his neck bowed him over. He went slack, passively resisting, forcing his
enemies to drag him. They did so with uncaring aplomb. Herb did not attempt to lift his
head � he could not bear to see the devastation his home had suffered.

His captors jolted to a halt. Herb reluctantly lifted his head to see their destination.
They were at the outskirts of the town, the packed dirt road leading out into grassy fields
and the forest beyond; close at hand stood four more of his foes, tall and massive,
gleaming white in the sun. A small, deep hole had been dug in the earth. Before it laid a
Roman cross.

"NO!" Herb screamed as his captors dragged him towards the cross. He redoubled
his efforts to break free, all in vain. They forced him down on the cross and bound his
arms to it. Sharp-tipped fingers tore the ragged battle raiment from his body, leaving him
naked save for the loincloth girt about his hips. One stepped forth with long iron spikes
and drove them barehanded through Herb's wrists. The Musk Prince contorted in agony,
sinews standing out like steel cords. The conquerors cut the bonds from him, so that the
spikes alone supported his weight, and raised the cross, planting it upright in the ground.
They looked up to consider their handiwork. Hollow eye sockets gazed on the Scion of
Dragons, black and pitiless against emotionless, fleshless faces. They walked away, their
naked bones rattling and clacking. Herb stared out at the fields and forests of his
kingdom, thorns of fire raking across his body, just underneath his skin. Despair
swallowed him utterly.

Time passed like the erosion of granite. His pain eventually dulled, save for
violent throbbing in Herb's wrists, but remained just lurking beyond the shadows of his
awareness. In the sky the clouds cleared and the heat of the sun beat down upon him. His
skin burned. Sweat drenched him and his mouth became a cavern of bitter dust. Fits of
fugue swept over him; his head would dipped down, his eyes flutter, and when he looked
to the sky the sun had crept further along on its journey. After an eon it settled into west,
alighting the forest and fields ablaze in crimson, swathing the ruins of Musk in shadow.
The coolness of twilight brought a scant comfort to Herb, but he knew clinically it would
not last. The chill of night was bitter and would wrack him just as harshly as the sun's
fire.

"Good evening, Prince Herb."

The voice was dry, soft yet penetrating, a wind blown through a cyclopean tomb.
It made flesh crawl and lingered resonantly in the ear before fading. Herb looked down at
the speaker, standing near the base of the cross, looking out to the fields; a humanoid
figure, slightly hunched, shrouded and cowled in a patchwork tatter of dull brown robes
that concealed him completely.

"It is a beautiful country, this kingdom that was once yours," he continued. Herb
shook his head violently.

"It is still mine, Sorcerer," he rasped in defiance. The being known as the Sorcerer
of the Bone looked up at the Dragon Prince. Gleaming red eyes burned in the
impenetrable black depths of his hood.

"In technicality, yes," the Sorcerer of the Bone conceded. "But it will be mine in
time, as will all else that you possess." Herb deigned not to answer. He raised his head
and looked back out to the forest, his jaw quivering from the violence with which he grit
his teeth.

Silence, then the Sorcerer spoke. "I have come to offer elucidation. I can sense the
question foremost in your thought. It festers there, a splinter boring into your mind. I
shall give you relief from it. I am never intentionally cruel. I but do what I must to ensure
my continued existence � no more, no less." He paused a moment, then continued. "You
wonder why you have been struck impotent, why you can still sense the energies but not
be able to channel them. You know that the rosary I bound around your neck has
something to do with it, but you don't know why. It is a simple matter, an act of
sympathetic magic. That rosary is made from the finger bones of a Western Saint � the
martyr George, patron of England, soldiers and battle. The most famous legend attached
to his name is his slaying of a dragon terrorizing a town in the country of Lybia,
devouring its sheep and women." The Sorcerer chuckled, his laughter like bones rattling
in stone sarcophagi. "What else one use to bind shut the power of a Child of Dragons? Of
course, one could question the efficacy of the relics of a Western saint against an Eastern
dragon, but I find it to be a fitting symmetry. Did not the West conquer the East, drag
down its ancient civilizations, rape it of its glory and its treasures? Did not England once
rule China, crushing it beneath an iron heel?" He chuckled again. "Symmetry�"

Herb did not speak. The Sorcerer of the Bone regarded him carefully. "You'll be a
long time in dying, I fear. The rosary keeps you from wielding ki, but does not negate
your innate traits. Your endurance is still inhuman. You'll linger on that cross for a
month at least. Two probably, if my surmise is correct. I would kill you outright if I
could, but the backlash of your death throes would thwart what I seek, rendering your
skeleton worthless. I must weaken you first, before I take your bones for my collection,
thus subsuming your potential into mine, increasing my power. It will take time, but time
I have in quantity." He paused again. "Have you nothing to say, Prince Herb? Royalty
should be better schooled in etiquette. It is most rude, not to engage in conversation with
your� guest."

Herb glared down at the Sorcerer of the Bone, his face alight with wrath. "By all
my ancestors I promise you this: even if takes thousands of years and hundreds of
incarnations, one day I'll wreak vengeance upon you."

"Perhaps you will," said the Sorcerer thoughtfully. "Perhaps you will. But I fail to
see how that will aid you in the present." He turned and walked back towards the Musk
Citadel, now his manse, moving with a slow, limping gait. "We shall speak again, Prince
Herb, before the end. I bid you good evening." The sun set. Night swept over all and
Herb was left alone with darkness and despair.

*****

In a forest glade a young man sat huddled near a small campfire to ward off the
chill of night. He was powerfully built, his muscles swelling against his clothes, which
had seen better days. The black shirt, trousers and tiger skins he wore were dirty and torn.
His boots were caked with mud, his orange and black striped hair a tangled rat's nest.
Feral eyes, the pupils slanted perpendicularly, peered out beneath his bangs, restlessly
scanning the dark trees. His ears were slightly pointed. Lying close at hand was a great
war club, nearly seven feet long, iron-shod and cruelly spiked. The young man crouched
on his haunches, one large, clawed hand resting on his club's hilt. Every so often he'd
take a sip from a battered leather waterskin, and sometimes he would spit into the fire,
making it crackle and hiss. Suddenly he stirred, raising his head, his nostrils flaring as he
sniffed the air. In a graceful motion he rose to his feet, putting his back to the fire, hefting
his war club at guard.

A figure stepped into the clearing, another young man, this one small and wiry,
dressed in dark brown. A grass green cloak was thrown over his shoulders. His ears too
were pointed and his eyes were a tawny gold. On his head of shaggy black hair he wore a
wolf skin cap. The hilt of a sword peeked over his shoulder. Many knives hung from his
belt, along with an iron mace.

The larger man lowered his club. "About time you got back, Mint," he said, his
voice a resonant, rumbling growl. "I was getting worried. Did you see anything this
time?" Mint grimaced, walking towards the fire and gesturing at the waterskin. His
companion threw it to him and Mint drank from it greedily.

"Its bad, Lime. Very bad. I saw the Prince. That bastard Sorcerer crucified him at
the outskirts of town. Nailed him up by his damn wrists."

Lime growled, tightening his grip on his war club, his knuckles going white.
"Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's go!"

"And do what, get killed? That'll certainly help the Prince," Mint snapped. "Our
town is crawling with skeletons and the Sorcerer's spies. It was a miracle that I got close
enough to overhear them talking, and even then I escaped unseen only by the skin of my
teeth. There's no way we'll save him by ourselves. We need help, Lime."

"And where do you suggest we go find it, puppy?" Lime growled back. "We are
not exactly overwhelmed by allies eager to help us. Our forces are scattered, their morale
shattered when the Prince fell. The Amazons and the Bird Folk will not lift a finger to aid
us. They'd gain nothing and risk too much. On the contrary, if our hegemony is broken
they'll benefit. Where else can we turn?"

Mint did not answer immediately. He bowed his head in thought. "There are
others," he said slowly.

"Where?"

"Nerima, in Japan."

"Who, Cologne?" Lime's eyes widened suddenly in comprehension. "You don't
mean THOSE three?"

"Who else?" demanded Mint. "They're strong and powerful fighters. They
ultimately defeated us. And you heard the rumors out of Junsendo. The one with the
pigtail � Saotome � slew Saffron himself."

"Bah! You overrate them. They're weaklings. They beat us with tricks and base
treachery."

"And how do you explain the death of the Phoenix God, lummox?" Mint
demanded.

"Sheer fantasy! Moonbeams! Drunken hearsay!"

"Goddamn it Lime, stop letting your pride blind you! We can't afford it. They're
the only ones who'll give us even a fraction of a chance of saving our liege. If we try it
alone the Sorcerer of the Bone will nail us up right next to Herb, if he doesn't kill us
outright. I know that will come to pass. I can FEEL it." They glared at each other for
several moments. Finally the stubbornness on Lime's face softened. He sighed and shook
his head.

"But do we have the time," he said quietly, "that's what I wonder. How long can
the Prince last?"

"A month, maybe two. That's what the Sorcerer told Herb. He needs the Prince
weakened first, before he kills him, but it'll take a while. If we move quickly we can be
to Nerima and back in a fortnight."

Lime thrust his club into the turf and leaned on it, feeling suddenly weary. He
bowed his head in despair. "Even so, what guarantee do we have that those three will
help us? None. They have no reason to, and they have every right to hate us�"

"Perhaps, but I think we can convince them. Have you forgotten�" Mint
stuttered to a stop, shivering suddenly. Lime lifted his head, the feralness of his eyes
suddenly tinged with fear. A sudden coldness washed over the two, biting deep into their
flesh, clutching greedily at their hearts. Lime roared, hefting up his war club. Mint spat
out a curse as he drew his sword and unhooked the mace from his hip. From the tree line
emerged skeletons, moving swiftly, clattering as they ran, pale and surreal in the
flickering light of the campfire. They all bore weapons- swords, axes, crude clubs, a few
bows. Some wore armor, rusted ringmail, battered breastplates. They charged the two
Musk warriors with preternatural quickness, seeking to snuff their vitality, assailing them
physically and with the psychic, atavistic fear they invoked in the living. Lime roared
again, as a tiger brought to bay. Mint howled and leapt into the fray. Lime followed,
smashing left and right, splintering ribs, crushing skulls. Mint danced amongst the
skeletons � striking, parrying riposting - his sword and mace blurs of liquid steel. But the
undead were no mean foes; they fought fearlessly, for why should they fear death? They
sought to overbear their opponents through sheer force of numbers and they were skilled
with their weapons. Swords and spears came close to striking home in flesh on several
occasions, while the archers shot indiscriminately, having no need to avoid hitting their
comrades.

Yet Mint and Lime prevailed. In minutes their foes were destroyed, reduced to
heaps of splintered bones, stark white in the darkness. The Musk leaned on their
weapons, gasping for breath.

"You were wrong, Mint," said Lime. "They did see you, damn them to Hell. Are
you all right?" Mint's left arm was cut, his sleeve blackened by his blood.

Mint nodded. "It's only a flesh wound. I'll live. You didn't come out of this
unscathed yourself."

Lime growled contemptuously. "Scratches, only. But we better move, before
more of those damn things find us." Mint nodded in agreement. He kicked out the fire
while Lime grabbed up their packs. But before they left Mint spoke again.

"What say you now, Lime. Do you still think we can save the Prince by
ourselves? Those were the least of the Sorcerer of the Bone's minions, and they would
have swamped us if they had come in greater numbers. You know that."

Lime looked long and hard out into the dark, in the direction of the Musk Citadel.
"Very well. We go to Nerima."

/////