Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  The Smith stood there with a resigned expression on his face, holding the large clump of grass and earth that Thom had pressed into his hands. Thom grinned, embarrassed, and shuffled his feet.

  "Aw, well, I knows you like chicken," he said.

  Carefully, the Smith placed the clump on the table, then wiped his hands on his breeches. "They're good people at heart," he reminded himself. "They need protecting." Secretly he was quite pleased. Thom didn't often give soil away - it was quite a mark of respect. And he'd got quite a good turnout here. Already there were thirty people crammed into the hall. He decided he'd better start, before they got fed up and began drifting away, and so standing on a small dais, he addressed the expectant faces before him.

  "My friends! For weeks I have been hearing rumours that give me reason to believe we are in mortal danger! The Tribe of Fallon are rampaging through the eastern lands, killing all that stand in their way! I know that you have heard nothing of this, but I want you to trust me. I've talked with Brenno Goat-bane, our shaman, and from his prognostications I think that we..." He paused. Damn! He'd used a five-syllable word. Most of his audience had instantly gone glassy-eyed, and Rangvald Mud-maker had fainted. He'd better move on quickly.

  "We need to learn to fight, if we want to stay alive. For months now I've been forging weapons for the defence of our village. Tonight I want to show you these weapons, and explain their use. This one, for instance, is called a sword..."

  Drawing it from the scabbard, he brandished the newly-forged blade aloft, and winced as it flew off the handle, shot past the ears of two startled villagers, and disappeared through the window. From outside came a shout of pain.

  "You throw that at people, do you?", asked Tobald. He was the miller, and one of the brightest villagers.

  "Not intentionally, no. That's just a minor design flaw. We're working on it... You're meant to hold it by the handle, so..." The Smith took another sword, and gingerly demonstrated how to lunge and parry. This time, the blade stayed firmly in place. "When the enemy come, they will all have swords and shields. You must practice..."

  "Here, this is good!" Thom had taken a bow and arrow from the table, and was examining it with an eagerness hitherto reserved solely for more telluric-related objects.

  "Ah, the bow and arrow!" the Smith said, pleased. "This is something you can make yourselves. I can supply the arrow-heads."

  "Boa narra. Hm." Thom was fascinated. Experimentally he flexed the bowstring, and turned to the other villagers. "It's got a long bit of wood, with this string thing going all the way from the top to the bottom, and another bit of wood with a pointy end and feathers, that goes..."

  There was a loud twang. Thom stared down.

  "...right through my foot."

  "No, no, not like that!" Angrily the Smith grabbed the weapon off the bemused villager, and a hum of excited murmuring started. Ronan watched, nervously. His father seemed close to losing his temper, and Ronan was well aware of the spectacular results on the few times this had occurred. There had been that time when one of the Mad Monks... Ronan mentally apologised to whatever Deities were listening, and hastily corrected himself... one of the Religious Brotherhood, rather, had threatened him with eternal damnation. The Smith had picked him up bodily and thrown him out. Through the wall. Admittedly, it was only a wattle-and-daub wall, but it had been a lot harder than the Monk's face.

  Suddenly, the door swung open. "What manner of meeting is this?" hissed a sleazy voice. The Smith cursed, and Ronan turned and gasped in dismay. Apparently you couldn't even think about the Brotherhood now without them turning up!

  For there in the doorway stood two members of The Most Holy Brotherhood of the Truly Humble - Prior Onion and Brother Turnip. The latter was large and fat, and when by himself could be quite a nice, friendly guy. But the Prior! Small and skinny, with a pale face sporting the sort of precisely-clipped moustache that only total bastards wear, he had sneering eyes that never seemed to quite meet your gaze, and hair that looked as though it had half a tub of lard on it. He delighted in scaring the shit out of the less intelligent with sermons of hellfire and damnation, and only his lack of imagination had prevented him and his Order from frightening the Villagers out of their few remaining wits. That, and the rather odd nature of the Brotherhood's Holy Book - the Gospels of Saint Tim the Insipid.

  Prior Onion gazed round, enjoying the sudden silence, embarrassed foot-shuffling, and clearing of throats that greeted his appearance. He was always most at ease amid the discomfort of others.

  "I said," he continued, in a voice like goose-grease dripping off a wheel-shaft, "what manner of meeting is this?"

  The Smith knew he could not afford to alienate the Prior, who had such a hold over the villagers that he could undo everything the Smith was trying to accomplish with just one word.

  "Holy Father," he said, " I am merely warning our people of the dangers that threaten us all. The fell tribe that is sweeping the land draw ever nearer, and we must prepare ourselves...."

  "Prepare ourselves, yes!" The Prior's voice sliced through the Smith's like a scalpel through butter. "But not with such profane weapons! Do you not see in this the hand of the Lord? We of The Brotherhood are prepared, for is it not foretold in the Divine Writings of Saint Tim? Know ye not the Seven Holy Plagues?"

  He raised one hand, and the sleeve of his voluminous habit fell back to reveal a book in his grasp... a leather-bound book, embossed on the cover with a golden question mark. The Smith had opened his mouth to argue, but the gasp of reverential fear from the assembled villagers warned him that he'd lost them. Prior Onion continued, voice raised in religious fervour, and a self-satisfied smirk playing around his lips.

  "Hear ye the words of Saint Tim the Insipid!" He opened the book, and began to read. "And it shall come to pass that the Children of the Lord shall turn away from the Lord, and shall not behave themselves. And the Lord shall be a little put out, saying unto himself, I suppose I'd better do something about this. And behold, the skies shall move, the heavens shall open, and there shall be minor local showers, so that the people get wet, coming home from the pub! And there shall be slight overnight frost, so their tomato plants, they shall not flourish! But still the people shall not turn to the Lord, and he shall be rather put out. And then shall there be a plague of cheap cigarette-lighters, and the people shall incinerate their eyebrows. And shall there be a plague of greenfly, and other garden pests, and the people shall cry out, saying, "Lo! The leaves have fallen off me chrysanths, and the birds have been at me strawberries again!" But still they shall not repent. And his vexation shall be rather disconcerting to behold! And he shall visit upon them a plague of dung, a plague of salesmen, and a plague of chesty coughs!"

  The Prior slammed the book shut with satisfaction, and looked round at the villagers to make sure that they had got the message. "A plague of salesman, you see! Thus is it written!"

  The Smith was staring at him as though he was stark staring mad. Unfortunately, Ronan realised, everyone else was staring at him as though he was God. Somebody muttered " A plague of chesty coughs! Rabid Dan was coughing only yesterday!" and suddenly all the villagers were on their knees, hands clasped in supplication. Except, that is, for Thom, who suddenly discovered how difficult it is to kneel when one foot is pinned to the floor by an arrow. The Smith stared round him in desperation, and had one last try.

  "But a plague of salesmen!" he cried, "Surely you're not suggesting that Nekros and the Tribe of Fallon are rampaging through the land selling thatch extensions?"

  "Only repent and ye shall be saved." The Prior smiled at him like a lizard that had woken to find itself knee-deep in succulent flies, then raised his voice to address the villagers. "My people! It is not too late! Join with me in prayer! Brother Turnip shall lead us in selected hymns of the Blessed Saint Tim, while I shall take up the Sacred Collection!" Quickly, he whipped a large collection-box out from under his habit. "And remember, money is the root of all evil. So lighten your po
ckets, and be pure in the eyes of the Lord!"

  He started to move among the villagers, who were all feverishly scrabbling in their pockets for money. Brother Turnip produced an ancient kaladion, which he desperately tried to pump into action. It gave a couple of choking sounds, then suddenly screeched into life, sounding like an elderly soprano sheep having its legs pulled off. The resulting "tune" was almost impossible to recognise, but could have been "Oh Lord, we've really been quite naughty", one of Saint Tim's more interesting hymns.

  The Smith knew when he was beaten. Taking Ronan by the shoulder, he led him through the door into the cool night air. Outside, it was nearly as noisy as inside the hall. The death-throes of the kaladion had woken every dog in the village. Most were barking, some were meowing, and at least one was clucking. Ronan looked at his father, worriedly.

  "Shouldn't we do something? I mean..." his voice died away as he saw the desperation in his father's eyes.

  "We will, but now is not the time. Damn those mad monks to hell!" The Smith stood there glowering for a moment, then slapped his son on the shoulder and smiled raggedly.

  "Come on, back to the forge. We have work to do. There will be other nights. We have little time, but we can still save our people."

  Unfortunately for the Smith, he had no idea just how little time they had...

  Four nights later, Ronan was lying in his bed on one side of the single large room that was their hut, watching the smoke curl up from the dying embers in the central fireplace towards the small smoke-hole in the roof, and waiting for his father to come home. He'd nipped out to the village's tiny alehouse, the Headless Chicken, for a celebratory drink, as that evening they'd held their first proper weapons-training session. Uninterrupted by the Religious Brotherhood, they had successfully demonstrated all of the weapons and several of the villagers had begun to get the idea. There had only been two minor accidents. Gael Bark-eater had insisted on holding his sword by the wrong end and now had no fingers left, and Thom had shot an arrow through his other foot, although he said this was no problem, as he hadn't removed the first arrow yet and it gave him a matching pair. Still, Ronan's father had been really pleased with their progress and for the first time in weeks seemed almost happy.

  Ronan was just about to reach out and extinguish the oil-lamp when Pratt, their guard-dog, began a loud and agitated clucking. Suddenly all hell broke loose outside... yelling, screaming, neighing of horses, clashing of swords, and above everything, his father's voice, shouting commands. Fearfully, Ronan got out of bed and then, clutching the sword and helm that his father had recently presented to him, and the teddy-bear that his mother had given him the year she died, he crept to the door and peered out. The sight that met his eyes was enough to freeze him to the spot with horror.

  Dark-clad horsemen seemed to be everywhere, galloping through the village square, setting fire to huts, and slashing at the panicking villagers with swords. In the eerie silver light of the two moons and the smoke from the burning buildings they looked like some phantom force from hell. One or two villagers were desperately running from hut to hut, seeking non-existent shelter, but many were lying very still in unlikely positions on the ground, their blood soaking into the dry earth.

  In front of the forge a small group led by the Smith were fighting back. Most had little idea of how to use their weapons, and were swinging their swords in wild arcs. Some had absolutely no idea, and were as much of a threat to their comrades as they were to the enemy. Ronan saw Thom fire arrow after arrow - but he was holding the bow the wrong way round, and all the arrows were shooting backwards over his shoulder. One thudded into his brother's arm, another just missed Tobold and buried itself up to the flights in a dark horseman's eye-socket. Tobold himself managed to maim a dismounted rider with a roundhouse sweep of his sword that sheared through the neck and took the head clean off. Ronan noticed that Tobold was wearing two helms. One on each foot.

  However, bravely as the villagers were fighting, they would have had no hope without the Smith. He was standing to the fore, yelling encouragement, and his smith's hammer was a whirl of death in his hand. Seven of the enemy were lying dead before him, and as Ronan watched he dispatched two more with fearsome blows that crushed helm, skull, and brain as though they were paper. Behind him Brenno Goat-bane was crouched, hurling whatever incantations and spells he could muster. Unfortunately he was incapable of major magic these days, having peaked two years earlier with his goat transformation, but several of the enemy were coming up in rather nasty boils, and at least two had started sneezing.

  Slowly, foot by foot, the little knot of villagers pressed forwards, but just as Ronan thought they might somehow prevail, the dark warriors lowered their swords and stepped back. An expectant hush fell over them, so that the only sounds were the crackling of the burning huts and the whimpers of the wounded. And then a tall and menacing figure stepped out from the shadows at the edge of the square. Imposing and powerful, with swarthy bearded face and evil eyes, he was dressed all in black. It was Nekros, the Tribe's leader. As he strode towards the Smith, reflected flames writhed and twisted about his jet-black helm and blood dripped slowly from his massive sword. He raised the sword and licked the point clean with evident enjoyment, and Ronan shuddered. This just had to be Nekros! Then the silence was broken by the Smith's voice.

  "You want to watch it. You could catch hepatitis, doing that."

  Nekros lifted his ice-cold eyes and studied the Smith with interest. "You fight well for a mere peasant, blacksmith," he hissed. "Such bravery could I use."

  "Side with you? Ha!" The Smith laughed in the amused manner of someone who has just had a scorpion dropped down their neck. "I'd rather die!"

  "That's rather what I had in mind."

  "So be it. But I shall take you with me to the very bowels of hell!" The Smith paused, aware that he was sounding a bit pompous. "So stick your sword up your ass and swivel on it, katimo!" he added.

  In his doorway Ronan gaped in amazement. He had never heard his father use such a rude word before. He watched wide-eyed as his father and Nekros warily circled each other, but before either could move there was a commotion off to one side of the square. The door of a hut flew open and Prior Onion popped out like a weasel out of a burrow. He was followed by one of the riders, who was waving a sword and grinning.

  "Nekros!" called the rider. "There's more gold in this one hut than in the whole of the rest of this stinking village!"

  "That is the Lord's gold!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, you could see that the Prior was regretting them. Then, as he had only one card in his hand, he decided he might as well play it. He held up his leather-bound Holy Book, and started on his sacred spiel. "Hear ye the words of Saint Tim....."

  Nekros drew a dagger from his belt, and raised it so that it was pointing directly at the Prior, who suddenly found that his voice box had gone on strike. A beam of red light stabbed out from Nekros's hand straight at the Holy Book, and the dagger flew along the beam as though shot from a gun, smashing through the Book to lodge in the Prior's forehead. His eyes rolled up to stare in horror at this unfamiliar object protruding from his skull, and he had just enough breath to gasp "You bastard" before breathing became a thing of the past and he slumped to the ground.

  The Smith tensed himself to attack, but then a restraining hand was laid on his arm and Brenno Goat-bane stepped past him. The Shaman's eyes were glowing red, and his mouth was twisting and writhing with a life of its own. He looked like a psychotic scarecrow. Raising a clawed hand, he began to chant an incoherent incantation, and little runnels of white light began to eddy about his finger-tips and chase up and down his scrawny arms.

  The Smith stared in amazement. He'd never seen Brenno get it quite this right before. It was almost as though for the past two years the Shaman had been hoarding his powers for one spell that was way beyond his usual ability. He paused dramatically and then stabbed his hand towards Nekros, and the light coalesced into a glowing ball that
hurtled from his fingertips towards the dark warrior. But as it hit him, the golden torque at Nekros's throat seemed to flash with fire, and the ball of light rebounded and fizzed straight back at its creator. Brenno screamed, and then there was a rather squelchy explosion and the horrified villagers were showered with small sticky fragments of Shaman.

  The Smith stared in horror at a gobbet of gently steaming flesh that clung to his forearm, and then he was suddenly aware of a huge gleaming sword arcing towards his face. Desperately he flung up his hammer to ward off the blow, but Nekros's sword sliced through the hammer's head as though it were some form of delicate pastry. There was a loud crunching sound, and the last sensation the Smith was aware of was the agonizing pain as the iron blade smashed through the bridge of his nose and deep into his skull.

  In the hut doorway, Ronan stared in disbelief as his father's lifeless body slumped at Nekros's feet, his head almost sliced in half. For a moment he felt as though he was going to pass out, but then a red mist of hatred seemed to grab hold of him, and jamming on the helm he flung down his teddy-bear and charged forward, sword upraised. It was as he reached his father's assassin and struck that he realised he'd made one of those awful mistakes that are still toe-curlingly embarrassing to think about years later. Somehow he'd got confused, and instead of throwing down his teddy he'd thrown down his sword. Nekros, however, had sensed the coming attack, and turning leisurely to meet it, raised his weapon to ward off the blow. The descending teddy bear connected with the blade and its head sheared off and hit Nekros on the nose. He blinked in surprise and then stared in amusement at the bean-pole of a youth now cowering in front of him.

  As suddenly as it had come, the fit of anger that had taken Ronan had vanished, to be replaced by absolute terror. He realised he was about to die, probably horribly, and behind him, blood-curdling screams gave him a good idea of what was happening to the rest of the village. Nevertheless, he stood his ground. If he had to die, he was determined to do so in a way that would have made his father proud of him. But instead of following up, Nekros bent down and picked up the headless corpse of the teddy bear. Then he held up the bear in front of Ronan's face and gently ran his bloodstained sword down its chest. The material parted and the bear's woolly guts spilled out in a torrent of fluff.