by Bibby, James
This blatant sadism was too much for Ronan. Weaponless, hopeless, he lowered his head and blindly charged at Nekros. Deftly, the warrior side-stepped, and as Ronan careered past him he delivered a sweeping back-hand cut with his sword that smashed into the back of the youth's helm. Ronan nose-dived into the ground like an apatodon coming to rest, and lay there motionless. Nekros looked down at him, and smiled with pleasure as blood began to flow out from underneath the helm. Good! That would teach the idiot to attack people with cuddly toys! Leering with satisfaction, Nekros turned on his heel and stalked off in search of someone else to massacre.
Ronan woke up with the headache of a lifetime and lay there with his eyes tightly shut, vaguely wondering why his bed felt so hard and uncomfortable. Various memories flitted round his badly dazed brain. The headache reminded him of the time he'd drunk a whole bottle of Stumpy's Fart Fermenter, a dwarfish barley wine, when he was ten. There was a strange clamped sensation about his skull that was reminiscent of the time he got his head stuck in a pan when he was eight. And the air seemed permeated with the stench of badly burned flesh, which reminded him of that disastrous time his father had tried to do a barbecue. His father! Oh God! With a suddenness that overwhelmed him, full memory came flooding back, and he sat up and dragged off the badly dented helm that had saved his life. The back of his head felt as though some incredibly powerful smith was beating flat a red-hot sword on it, and his face and chest were covered in the encrusted blood that had poured from his nose when he smashed into the ground. Aghast, he stared about him.
It was morning, and the Tribe of Fallon were long gone. There was little sign that they had even been there - save for the fact that most of the village had been burned down and the ground was littered with bodies. A haze of pungent smoke drifted upwards from a few still-smouldering huts, and hordes of sated crows hopped heavily about from corpse to corpse, their beaks and feathers soaked in blood, half-heartedly searching for the odd delicacy that might have been overlooked. Ronan hauled himself upright and staggered across the square, desperately searching for survivors. As he stared at the charred remains of once-welcoming homes and stumbled over the lifeless bodies of friend after friend, the enormity of what had happened was almost too much for his mind to cope with. He felt emotionally numb. Coming to his father's corpse, he stopped. He just couldn't believe that this was real. Never again to lie in bed and hear his father's hearty greeting as he strode in from the alehouse? Never to stand together in the unbearable heat of the forge, side by side as his father hammered out another sword? A lot of use they'd been, though. The handles always came off...
Suddenly Ronan was on his knees, clutching his father’s ice-cold hand, the tears streaming down his face. For what seemed an age grief overwhelmed him, until eventually the pain abated and he found he was left with a cold implacable hatred. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but he was going to track down Nekros and kill the bastard. Then, as he rose, he realised that the hush of death that hung over the village was being gently broken. Someone somewhere was humming.
Ronan finally tracked the sound down to Water Street, where he found Old Palin slumped against the well, a black-feathered arrow sticking out of his groin. Palin had often been referred to as the wisest man in the village (which is rather like referring to the roughest billiard ball, or the most attractive tapeworm). Now he was sitting there in a pool of blood, with a shield in one hand, a broken sword in the other, and a battered helm on his head, softly humming to himself.
"Old Palin!" Ronan gasped. "You're alive! But... you're wounded!"
"Not much gets past you, eh, lad! Nay, don't fuss. ‘Tis naught but a scratch."
"A scratch?" Ronan stared at the wicked-looking arrow doubtfully.
"I was lucky, boy. Bound for my heart, it was, 'til I deflected it with this shield-thing your father gave me. Pity I deflected it downwards, though. It's gone straight through my wedding-tackle. What a way to go, eh? Pinned to the ground by your privates!" He started to laugh and then coughed, a dry hacking cough that racked his whole body. Ronan watched fascinated as the tip of the arrow jerked up and down with every spasm.
"You must be in agony!" he said.
"No, no." Old Palin waved a depreciating hand. "In a strange kind of way it's almost enjoyable." His breathing was slowly becoming more laboured. Ronan stepped past him to the well and drew up a bucket-full of water. Then he gently removed the helm from Palin's head, tapped it a couple of times on the well's brickwork to dislodge the numerous unpleasant little creatures that had moved into it from Palin's scalp, and filled it with water. He handed it to the wounded man, who gratefully drank from it.
"Ah! Thanks, Ronan. You're a good lad. Take after your father, you do." He sighed. "He was right, your Dad. Said we should watch out for Nekros and his tribe. We should have listened."
At the mere mention of the name Nekros, Ronan was nearly sick with hatred. He found himself wanting to do horrid things to someone with sharpened poles. "Good Master Palin", he ground out, "I swear to you that I will not rest until I have sought out Nekros and consigned his foul soul to the dark chasm that spawned him!"
Palin chuckled painfully. "Where do you get these phrases from? The dark chasm that spawned him, indeed! You've been reading too many Chronicles!" Suddenly serious, Palin reached out and grabbed Ronan's sleeve, pulling him closer. "Listen, son. You're no match for a hard bastard like Nekros. Not yet, anyway, though your Dad had hopes for you. You need to learn to fight. Go to Warrior School. Port Raid is the place, on the west coast. Learn the trade...." His voice died away, and his hand loosened and slipped to the ground.
"Old Palin! Don't leave me!" But as Ronan looked down at the glazed eyes and the slack jaw, he knew it was no use. Sadly, he stood up and looked round. Yesterday, he had a home, family, friends... Now all of a sudden he was totally alone. There was nothing left to live for.
Except revenge.
TOWN
So were Ronan's tribe, the Edmak, destroyed. Nekros the Black was their bane, and thus was he known in the land of Tak as the Edmak Bane...
...and so in his sixteenth year did Ronan come to Port Raid, on the west coast of Frundor. A rough and dangerous town was this, where mingled the three free races, dwarves, elves and men. Sailors from countless ships thronged the Old Town, and many was the elf touched up in a dark alley...
THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY
Ronan wandered along the teeming street, gazing in awe at the unfamiliar sights of the city of Port Raid. Although he'd already been here three days, he still couldn't quite get used to it. He felt hemmed in by the ancient red-stone buildings that towered above him, three or even four stories high, for street after street. He felt intimidated by the throngs of people who jostled and pushed past him, but didn't even seem to notice that he was there. He felt deafened by the continuous noise. And yet he found it all totally and wonderfully exhilarating. The place was so alive!
People leant out of windows, yelling to each other. They stood in doorways, yelling to each other. They thronged the streets, yelling to each other. Greetings were called, news passed on, wares were advertised, deals were struck, and all at maximum volume. Shop-owners, stallholders, and street vendors plied their trade, warriors strutted importantly about, and harlots and holy-men touted for business. The scent of the exotic spices and fruits from the stalls at the side of the road mixed with the incense from a burner above a temple door, and the mouth-watering aroma of a dozen different cuisines drifted out from the doorways of countless bars and eating-houses.
Ronan watched as a couple of monks from the Order of the Seventh Day Hedonists stopped a sauntering prostitute and began to negotiate terms for their next party. Then suddenly there was the sound of a window opening and a muffled cry from above, and Ronan and everyone around him dived for shelter. There was an unpleasant spattering sound in the centre of the suddenly-vacant street, and then people picked themselves up as if nothing had happened, and the hubbub began again. Ronan smiled to himse
lf, and continued to stroll along. He was definitely starting to get the hang of the place now. He'd learnt the hard way that if you heard a cry of "Wezlops!" from a window above you, you dived to one side quickly, or else you were likely to receive the contents of someone's chamber pot over your head. He'd also learnt that in the big city you don't trust anyone.
On the day that he arrived, he hadn't gone more that twenty paces past the city gate before he had been relieved of his money, his backpack, and his boots by three separate and totally plausible strangers. He would probably also have been relieved of the cartload of weapons forged by his father if the next guy he met hadn't got over-confident and tried to talk him into handing over the clothes he stood up in as well. Luckily, common sense had prevailed. He'd hung on to the cart and pushed it up Eastgate Street until he found a shop called "Honest Elric's Sword-Store and Arms Emporium". Elric (a white haired old warrior with one arm missing, and breath that could have stripped wall-paper) had taken a liking to him, and had warned him of the pitfalls waiting in the city for a young innocent boy fresh from the countryside. Then he'd examined the weapons and offered Ronan the very generous price of sixty silver tablons for the lot. It was only the next day, when he'd passed Honest Elric's and seen that just one of the thirty swords he'd sold was in the window priced at ten tablons, that Ronan had realised that maybe it wasn't too generous a price after all. Still, sixty tablons was a small fortune. Ronan was sure he could enrol in Warrior School for less than that.
Then he'd gone down to the Old Town and fixed up lodgings at a quayside tavern. The owner had asked him if he wanted a harlot for the night. Ronan, unsure what a harlot was, but thinking it might be some kind of small onion, had declined. A short while later, he had been standing at the bar with a flagon of Imp Ale shandy when the landlord brought in the harlot ordered by the warrior who had just checked in. Ronan had stood. And stared. And then stared some more. A harlot was a woman! Soft brown skin, almost as dark as his own, long jet-black hair that fell to her waist, lips that looked as though they'd been inflated, and eyes that could have set fire to snow. And her figure! Ronan had never realised women could be shaped like that. She had cast a quick glance in his direction, and smiled at him. Ronan had thought his loins were going to explode. He'd had to leave quickly.
For a while, as evening crept on, he'd wandered along the quay, looking at the ships. The place had been alive with rough sea-faring folk of every description, quite a lot of whom had sidled up to him and muttered odd suggestions. Ronan hadn't been quite sure exactly what those suggestions meant, but he had a feeling that his father wouldn't have approved. At first, they'd tended to pester him, but he'd quickly discovered that laying his hand on the hilt of his sword and snarling discouraged them, and they'd left him alone.
He'd been standing admiring a particularly wicked-looking ship (the Profane Dreamer, a slaver out of Unch Haven), when the sound of breaking glass behind him had caught his attention. He'd turned round to see a small group of people sitting slumped in the doorway of a Chandler's store. Elves! But not as Ronan had always imagined them to be from the stories he'd read. Elves were supposed to be the Beautiful People - fair of face, always laughing and singing - but this little group had been anything but beautiful. With filthy stained clothes and distorted features, they had been mumbling and swearing to themselves and swigging some clear liquid from bottles wrapped in dirty brown paper. One, with the fragments of the bottle he had dropped strewn at his feet, had lurched over to a midden and poked around until he found a filthy old flagon. Then he'd staggered past Ronan and down the harbour steps and filled it with seawater. Raising it to his lips, he'd drunk deeply, at which point his legs had given way, and he'd sat down heavily on the steps with his feet in the water. Ronan had felt shocked and disappointed. This had been worse than the time he'd walked into Brother Purity's hut and found him doing rude things with one of the goats. It was only when he had got talking with the landlord back at the tavern that he'd discovered the truth about elves. (For more about elves, see Appendix 2.)
Suddenly, Ronan was dragged back to the present by the clanging of the temple bell. High up on the roof, two of the brothers of the Order of Seventh Day Hedonists could be seen tugging at the rope. Ronan blushed and turned away. He'd never before seen a bell that was quite such an obscene shape. Then he realised that they were chiming the hour. Nine o'clock! Klat! He was going to be late - and on his very first day at Warrior School!
He strode off purposefully up the street to confront his future, thrusting his way confidently through the crowds, hand resting on sword-hilt like a true warrior. In his mind he already was a warrior, proud, noble and fearsome, Ronan the Terrible, Vanquisher of Evil and Slayer of Thousands. And suddenly there it was, in the middle of a row of shops. On one side was a Necromancer's Suppliers - "El Spells". On the other side, "Just Slaves". And between them, the finest Fighting Academy on the whole of the northwest coast (or so the landlord had assured him) - "Blades".
Striding through the front door, Ronan found himself in a reception area that was like no other room he'd ever seen. The walls were decorated in really welcoming shades of grey and peach, and on them hung beautiful tapestries depicting the exploits of some of the School's more notable and bloodthirsty graduates. The floor was covered in the thickest carpet Ronan had ever stood on, and plants of every description cascaded from hanging-baskets and pots. A massive desk stood to one side, next to a filing cabinet. On the desk was a quill pen in an inkpot, and an in-tray full of important-looking documents and parchments. Behind the desk a beautiful but (to Ronan's eyes) emaciated girl was studiously ignoring the documents and concentrating on painting some strange blue liquid onto her nails.
She looked up and flashed him a totally insincere smile. "Hi, I'm Lenya, your receptionist, how may I help you?" Her voice sounded as though it hadn't changed since she was eight years old.
"I want to enrol. In Warrior school."
"Uh-huh." From under the desk she produced a form, which she started to fill in. "Name?"
"Ronan."
"Second name?"
"What? Oh... er, Smith. Ronan Smith."
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Smith, eh? On the run, are we?"
"What?" Ronan was confused.
"Never mind." She carried on writing. "Warrior Course. What level entry? Beginner, greenhorn, novice, experienced, hardened, murderous, or total bastard?"
Ronan could feel his confidence disappearing like rainwater down a grid. "Beginner", he mumbled.
"Day student or live-in?"
"Live-in, please."
"Right. That will be thirty tablons initial fee, please. That covers the first term's tuition, plus accommodation and full board. It will be extra for books, armour, weapons, and any battlefield trips that may be necessary. Sign here." She held out the pen and parchment, and Ronan handed her the money and signed. "If you'd like to go through..." she indicated a door behind her. "Along the corridor, third room on the right. Tazmir Fastblade will be taking today's class. He likes to talk to new students first. Says he can't stand maiming people he doesn't know personally..."
The last remnants of Ronan's confidence swirled away with an almost audible gurgle, and he had a sudden urge to curl up on the floor with his thumb in his mouth. As he went to open the door his hand was shaking like a leaf. Ronan the Terrible, Vanquisher of Evil, was in imminent danger of becoming Ronan the Terrified, Dampener of Trousers.
The warrior with the scarred face ducked, and his opponent's sword whistled over his head. Swiftly he swung his own massive blade in a scything blow, but his opponent's recovery was as fast as the strike of a snake, and the two swords clashed together. For a moment both men struggled, each seeking to force the other back by sheer muscle-power, and the only sound in the room was the harsh gasping of their breath. Then they leapt apart and the scarred warrior, sensing an opening, slashed backhanded at his opponent's side. But again, the other warrior was ready. With one fluid movement he parrie
d the blow and then struck, and his sword flashed towards the scarred warrior's unprotected neck... and stopped a hair's-breadth away. For a moment they stood motionless, and then the scarred warrior laughed, and stepped back.
"You're right!" he said. "That's a pretty impressive sword!"
"Yeah," replied his opponent proudly. He held it up, and the light glinted off the black and silver patterns etched into the blade. "It's the new Orcbane Headcleaver. She's a little beauty. Light, manoeuvrable, fast.... I tell you, it's a pleasure to drive her into someone's guts!"
"Really evil looks, too!"
"Mmm! The blade's engraved with runes of power. Not just for decoration, either. See the way they're etched in? All those little runnels help the airflow. When you're dragging the sword out of someone's entrails the air can get in, so your blade doesn't get stuck. She just slides out! And she's easy to clean, too. You know the mess someone's lower bowel can make of a blade..."
The warrior paused and looked across to the doorway of the practice-room. In the corridor outside, the tall skinny black youth who had been watching them practice with a look of horror on his face was noisily throwing up the remains of his breakfast.
It was ten minutes before Ronan had recovered enough to brave whatever horrors the third room on the right held. He pushed open the door and found himself in a long, brightly-lit room. The floor was of yellow wood-blocks, polished to a brilliant shine. On the right-hand wall a full-length mirror ran from one end of the room to the other. At the far end was a set of lockers, some chairs, and a low table. Behind them, an open doorway led through to a white-tiled washroom. Pots of fresh flowers were stationed at regular intervals against the wall, but their scent couldn't quite mask a pervasive odour of male sweat. There was more testosterone in the air than you could shake a stick at.