[FFML] [FanFic][Inu-Yasha/Crossover] Barbarians Prologue

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Barbarians

An Inu-Yasha Crossover

Jeremy Harper

Prologue

Gaspar Rodrigo, first mate of the merchant vessel Honra Do Viajante, pointed out over the bow rail, across the expanse of azure ocean. "There, senhor. It is just coming into sight. Nagasaki. We should be at the docks within the hour, if the wind holds." He glanced over at the man standing next to him, Captain Da Silva's special passenger. "It shall feel good to have solid land under the feet again, after all this time at sea, eh?" The man merely nodded, his gaze focused intensely on the horizon. Rodrigo considered him with carefully concealed wariness, for he feared this man greatly - feared him for the intense violence that simmered underneath his calm, austere personality; feared him for his grim, dangerous reputation; feared him for the calamity his presence could bring down on the Honra Do Viajante and her crew. Bad enough to have a heretic Englishman on board, but to be carrying this particular one... Not for the first time, Rodrigo gave thanks that his ship had not run across any Spanish galleons since leaving Lisbon long months ago.

"Are you still determined to go through with your plan, senhor?" Rodrigo asked.

"I have not sailed all these countless leagues, only to lose heart when my goal is in sight." The passenger replied.

"You will not last long," Rodrigo predicted with a shake of his head. "The Japanese do not like foreigners traipsing about their lands. The warlords tolerate us for the goods only we can supply. Those little slant-eyed monkeys will kill you the moment you step one foot out of Nagasaki."

"If that is the fate God has ordained for me, so be it. But I will not perish without a reckoning." A grim smile flickered briefly on the Englishman's thin lips. "And, at the risk of sounding immodest, I do not think it was intended for me to travel so far from England, without harm, only to die without bringing justice down on the creature I pursue."

"For your sake, senhor, I hope you are right," muttered Rodrigo. "It would be a shame if you have come all this way on a false trail."

"I have hunted his ilk too often to be so easily led astray. I know Santiago procured passage on a Portuguese merchantman bound for the Japans. He will be there; I feel it in my bones. I will find him, and I will hasten him swiftly to infernal Master."

Rodrigo shivered, the cold, implacable tone of the Englishman's voice chilling his heart. "Still, I think, one way or the other, Japan will be the death of you."

"It can be no worse than Africa. Nothing could be..." The Englishman trailed off, lost momentarily in memory. He turned away from the rail. "I must begin to prepare for my departure. Good day to you, Master Rodrigo." He walked towards the cabins, crossing the deck with long, silent strides, wraith-like, a grim specter bearing the promise of retribution. Despite the sun hot overhead, Gaspar Rodrigo found himself shaking with cold - terribly, terribly afraid.

*****

Secure at her dock, the crew of the Honra Do Viajante busied themselves with unloading its cargo. At the gangplank Captain da Silva bid his passenger farewell.

"I wish you good luck and God's grace, senhor," he said, offering his hand. "I'm afraid you are going to need it."

"Of that I have no doubt," the Englishman replied as he shook hands with da Silva. "I thank you for your good wishes, Captain, and for the services you rendered to me on this long voyage. God watch over you and your crew when you set sail back to Lisbon. Farewell." Without further preamble he hitched up his gear and descended the gangplank.

Rodrigo, watching the Englishman leave the docks, shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. "It is terrible to watch the walking dead," he declared to his captain. "Some samurai will cut him down before he gets ten steps from the docks."

"You are pessimistic today," said da Silva, amused. "I disagree with your assessment. A man like that is not one to die in the gutter of some heathen city."

"More the pity," muttered Rodrigo.

"Enough," da Silva commanded firmly. "That is a sentiment unworthy of the first mate of my ship." Rodrigo flinched and looked away.

"I beg the Captain's forgiveness, but I can't help but feel that way. He is a dangerous man, and it was dangerous to have him aboard, no matter how much he paid. I am glad we are rid of him. If this bastard Spaniard he is chasing is in Japan, then I pity him, having such a wolf on his heels." Da Silva but shook his head.

In the streets the citizens of Nagasaki stared in open amazement at the new gaijin visitor walking their streets. They were acclimated to the southern barbarians, the uncouth Portuguese sailors and their earnest, forceful priests, their unhealthy stink and rude manners. But never had they seen such a barbarian as this one, so grim and silent. He towered tall over all in sight, clad in dark, close-fitting garments, a tall-crowned, broad-brimmed hat on his head, knee high boots of leather on his legs, his long cape flowing in his wake. He was lean of build, and strong seeming, moving with a fluid, casual grace that marked him as a trained, experienced fighter. His face was pale, stark in its gauntness, almost cadaverous. His broad brow and tapering chin gave his countenance the impression of formidable intelligence. Black locks fell straight down to his shoulders. His eyes were colored a steely blue, glittering with a cold, strangely fervent light. Their gaze was piercing, and those who met it often turned away, shaken by its forthright intensity.

The strange gaijin was arrayed for both travel and battle. A rucksack could be glimpsed beneath his cloak, and several pouches hung from the green, gypsy-made sash that served as his belt. He carried several weapons openly: a musket slung over his shoulder, and a brace of matchlock pistols thrust in his sash. A ramrod and a powder horn hung at his right hip. At his left hip was a sheathed rapier, plain of pommel and guard, its blade long and heavy. In his scarred right fist he clenched a long, wooden staff of curious make, its top carved in the likeness of a large, snarling cat, its end tapering into a sharpened point.

An old sailor, veteran of many voyages, sat on a bench in front of a tavern. He choked on his sake when the Englishman walked passed. He sputtered and coughed, wiping at his mouth as he tried to catch his breath. The young man sitting next to him looked at him with annoyance. "What's your problem?"

The old sailor pointed with trembling finger. The young man stared, then started in surprise. "An Englishman! What the hell is he doing in Nagasaki?" He rose to his feet, only to be restrained by the old sailor.

"What are you doing?" the old sailor asked.

"I'm going to get some of the crew and find out who that bastard is."

"Might as well slit your own throat here and now, then." The young man scowled.

"What do you mean by that, Fernao? He's well armed, true, but he's only one man."

Fernao grimaced. "I know that one man. Or at least, I've heard of him. I'd sooner spit in Satan's face than raise arms against him, Antonio"

Antonio sneered. "And who is this Englishman that has you so unmanned, dotard?" Fernao took a drink from his bottle of sake to ease his throat and stared hard at Antonio.

"Solomon Kane," he whispered, nodding in satisfaction as the shock of recognition dawned on his young companion's face. "Yes, even a young pup like you, still stinking of his mama's milk, has heard of that Puritan cutthroat."

Antonio ignored the insult, sinking back down on the tavern bench, pale and awed. "Blessed Virgin, what's HE doing here in Asia? I heard he was busy killing Spaniards in the Caribbean."

Fernao shook his head. "I know not, and I do not want to find out. But whatever business brings him to Nagasaki, it is sure to be bad, and will end in bloodshed; that much is assured." Fernao finished his sake bottle, and called to the innkeeper for another.

/////

Disclaimer - Inu-Yasha is the creation of Rumiko Takahashi. Solomon Kane is the creation of Robert E. Howard. All characters are used without permission.

Comments and criticism may be directed to DorianVal@aol.com.

Thank you for your time and tolerance,

Jeremy Harper