Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  Several warriors were already here, changing by the lockers, or doing warm-up exercises in front of the mirror. With two exceptions, they were all large, powerful, and terrifying. The two exceptions were dwarves. They were short, powerful, and terrifying. Both wore iron helms with horns protruding from the top, and had long forked beards hanging in plaits. One was sharpening a battle-axe, producing a high-pitched scraping sound that made Ronan's teeth curl up.

  Ronan staggered to a chair, feeling sick again. He didn't dare look at anyone and so picked up one of the glossy magazines that were strewn carelessly across the table. It was called "Maim!" He quickly dropped it, then curiosity got the better of him and he picked up another one, entitled "Stab!" On the front cover was a ridiculously handsome male model, dressed in stylish warrior gear and holding out a severed head. Ronan winced and then scanned the list of contents. "Decapitation - how to get a head!"... "Berserkers - still crazy after all these years!"... "Garrotting - the choke's on you!"

  At that moment, the door at the far end of the room opened, and a huge figure stalked in, with the receptionist fluttering beside him like a moth next to a vulture. It was Tazmir. His muscles bulged beneath his ebony skin like a sackful of melons, his eyes burned red like the coals in the Smiths forge, and killer was written on his face (literally, in a tattoo across his forehead). Slung behind his back was a sword at least five foot in length. The terrifyingly macho effect was slightly marred by the soft-felt dancing-pumps and leg-warmers he was wearing. He strode down the room, reading a parchment that the receptionist had thrust into his hands, then stopped and turned to her.

  "No way do we take this guy on as an instructor," he said, slapping the parchment with the back of one hand. "Look here... under Previous Employment! Berserker. See?" He thrust the parchment back at her. "The last berserker we took on wiped out an entire class one afternoon. Sodding lunatic! Said he got these headaches... Find me someone else. Now. Where's the new boy?"

  Ronan stood up shakily, painfully aware that his chest measurement was probably less than one of Tazmir's biceps. The warrior looked at him with something approaching pity in his eyes.

  "By the Gods," he said. "They're sending them to us in nappies now!" He walked across and studied Ronan, who stared back. Frightening as Tazmir was, he didn't generate the same sense of evil that Ronan had experienced with Nekros. He gave the impression that, although he might kill you as soon as look at you, he'd do it in an honest, clean, and straightforward way. To his surprise, Ronan found himself liking the man. Even more surprisingly, it seemed to be mutual, for Tazmir suddenly grinned, and slapped Ronan on the back (nearly dislocating his spine). "Welcome to Warrior School, lad!" he roared. All at once, Ronan felt accepted. This was the beginning! This was his new home. In three years, he'd be a warrior!

  That is, if he managed to survive three years closeted with this gang of psychopaths...

  INTERSTICE

  Many were the famous warriors who learnt their trade at the school of Tazmir Fastblade in Old Port Raid. Orgon the Terrible, who rode at the right hand of the Elven Prince, Evelyn, throughout the long campaign against the Eastern Orcs, now known as the Evelyn War... Drax the Strange, who drank the great dragon, Faud, under the table one legendary night in an Orcville wine-bar... but mightiest of all by far was Ronan Mage-bane, son of a smith. Strong was his arm, sharp his sword, and great was his street credibility! Vengeance did he bring to those who lived by lies and by deceit, and many was the tabloid journalist who went in fear for his life...

  THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY

  Ronan sat in the barber's chair, studying his reflection in the mirror, while behind him Vosene the Camp, the Elven Hair-stylist of Lothl'Oreal, fiddled and twittered busily. It was amazing what a difference four years could make. Four years of rigorous training. Four years of high-protein diets and pumping iron. Idly, he flexed a biceps the size of a man's head. His own father wouldn't have recognised him now. He would have been proud of him, though. Winner of the Orgon the Terrible Memorial Trophy... the only student ever to beat Tazmir himself in single combat...

  Behind him, Vosene stopped fiddling, and stepped back proudly. "There! Is sir not deliriously happy?" Ronan dragged his thoughts back to the present, and switched his attention to his hair. For a moment he stared, then an amazed grin spread over his face. Yo! Style, or what!

  For months, Vosene had been going on and on about "dreadlocks". Ronan had no idea what these were, but had supposed that it was some style that would fill one's enemies with dread. But this was something else! He moved his head, and the long plaits jostled round his shoulders like a score of angry snakes. Oh yes!

  "Yo, Vosene! Gimme five!" Ronan held out his hand.

  Vosene looked at him, and raised an arch eyebrow. "I think if I gave sir just one, I'd come over all faint."

  Ronan grinned, then stood up and flicked him a silver tablon. He liked the outrageous stylist. It took guts for an elf to stick it out in Port Raid, having to stay indoors with the windows tightly shuttered whenever the slightest sea breeze blew. But Vosene had his own way of getting drunk on seawater. As he put it, "The merest sniff of a sailor's hair and I'm gone, love."

  Strapping on his sword in its shoulder harness, Ronan walked out into the teeming streets. He now bore a warrior's sword (five foot plus of gleaming steel that was so heavy, Vosene couldn't even lift it), which he wore, slung southern fashion, down his back. The toothpick of a sword that he'd brought with him to Port Raid had long since gone. Now, he wore just the one reminder of his past... a severed teddy-bear head hanging from a leather thong round his neck. Absently, he fondled one of the bear's ears as he walked. Tomorrow was graduation day, the culmination of four years of effort (for further information on these years at Warrior School, readers should consult "Ronan - the Acne Years", by Maxon the Small, or "Ronan Mage-bane - from Pimples to Paladin", by the Scribe of Welbug). And then, the real purpose of his life could begin. Somewhere in the world was a scumbag called Nekros. And someday, Ronan would track him down, even if it took him the rest of his life…

  BOOK TWO

  QUEST

  ...and many famous taverns were there in those days. Finest, so folk say, was the Lost Dwarfish Pub of Legend, but that famous Inn was long hidden from the ken of mortal folk..... Strangest, surely, was the Wooden House of Troy, built during the siege of this fair town by the attacking army. It was their plan to leave this inn-on-wheels outside the gates, with many well-armed warriors hid inside, and feign withdrawal. Then, when the Wooden House was wheeled within the walls of Troy, the warriors would wait for night, and fall on the defenders as they slept. Alas, this plan came to naught, for by the time night fell, the warriors inside were all too pissed by far for fighting, but sat there in the Taproom, loudly singing... oldest and most isolated tavern at this time was probably The Tavern at the Edge of Darkness, on the northern edge of the Forest of Dreams...

  THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY

  The Tavern at the Edge of Darkness stood in the tiny hamlet of Bol on the southern rim of the Nevacom Plains, where the Great East Road and the Southern Highway met. Once, long ago, it had been a thriving place, offering fine ale and a bed for the night to travellers of all descriptions. These days, however, business was bad. Few people went north into the Nevacom Plains any more, and the danger from roving tribes or bands of orcs discouraged people from going east. Now, there might be the odd dwarf heading from his homeland to the Northern Mountains, or a group of elves travelling from the Forest of Dreams to the coast for a stag-party, but that was about it.

  However, the landlord, Watal Stoneface, wasn't too bothered. He was getting on a bit now and, as he frequently told his few regulars, his back wasn't what it had been. A load of fussy customers demanding drinks, food and fresh bedding every day would be more than he could cope with. Local trade and the few passing travellers kept him and his wife in the necessities of life. True, the Tavern could do with a little renovation, but it would last longer than he would. Moodily, he eyed th
e dust-covered cobweb-strewn row of fine spirit bottles on the top shelf behind his bar. At the current rate of trade, most of his stock would outlast him, too.

  He started to wipe the top of the bar with a cloth that was even dirtier than the spirit bottles. The bar didn't need wiping, but Wiping Down Bar-tops was the first thing they taught you in this trade and it was a reflex action now. As he did so, he studied tonight's customers. There was a single itinerant Dwarf clad in a chain-mail shirt and an iron helm, who was sitting by the blazing fire reading one of the more scurrilous dwarf newspapers, "Small Talk". There were a couple of Elves on their way home from Port Raid who were slumped in a corner nursing king-size hangovers. And sitting at a table on the other side of the room was a man, a sword salesman on some sort of business trip. He appeared to be waiting for someone and was in a bit of a state. His clothes were stained with some horrid-looking white encrustation, and his face and hair were liberally streaked with the same stuff. Every time he moved, fine white dust drifted off him, leaving a trail.

  Watal gave the bar another wipe, just in case any of the white dust had landed there. You couldn't be too careful. He was just wondering whether he ought to go and give all the table-tops a bit of a wipe when the door opened, and the wind whipped in, causing the fire to roar in the grate and sending a small cloud of white dust billowing round the salesman. Watal tut-tutted, then his eyebrows rose at the sight of the figure that had just entered. It was a warrior, large, dark-skinned, with braids of hair hanging like black snakes round his head and the most enormous sword slung down his back.

  "A warrior of the old school", thought Watal. "Don't get many of them in here these days. He looks a bit pissed off."

  In fact, Ronan was no more pissed off than any other guy who had spent the past two years searching for his father's killer without even a sniff of success. He'd had a number of minor triumphs while fighting for the cause of good against evil, and was getting a bit of a reputation amongst the nastier elements of the Western Lands as A Guy Not To Be Messed With, but no-one seemed to have seen Nekros for several years. Now he was heading east on the advice of a soothsayer he'd consulted. She had told him he'd find his destiny beyond the source of the Great River Leno. She'd also told him that he was a window-cleaner by profession, that his real name was Muriel, and that his father was a badger. Not for nothing was the soothsayer known as Manya the Screw-loose. Still, he'd decided to follow her suggestion. It had cost him a bronze tablon, and he had nothing else to go on.

  Ronan stood for a moment looking round the inn before moving to the bar. Despite the roaring fire the place was cold and gloomy, with a pervasive smell of damp dust. However, to judge from the impressive array of pump handles on the bar, at least they had a pretty good selection of ales.

  "A tankard of Manticore, please, landlord."

  "Sorry. We don't stock it any more. Well, there's no call for it round here." The landlord gave the bar an extra wipe, by way of making amends.

  "Oh. Well, a tankard of Old Organs, then." Ronan had got quite fond of this Orcish brew during a couple of weeks he'd spent in High Meneal, hunting down a group of mountain trolls that had been terrorising the town.

  "Old Organs! I used to be rather partial that one myself!" Watal sighed in fond memory. "Problem is, they won't deliver this side of the mountains any more..."

  Five minutes later, Ronan was standing looking suspiciously at a tankard of Whitebeard's Flagon, the only beer that the tavern actually stocked. Renowned as the worst beer in the west, Flagon was usually gassy and tasteless. Gingerly, Ronan took a mouthful. Well, there was a surprise! It was even gassier than ever, but actually tasted of something! He tried not to grimace. New vinegar flavour, eh? Still, it was the only beer for twenty miles...

  Watal had taken up his favourite gossiping-to-the-customer position, and was polishing an already sparkling glass. (Glass-polishing was the second thing they taught you.)

  "Nice evening, sir." Ronan thought of the bitter wind, and the rain that had driven him to seek refuge, and let that one pass. The landlord carried on. "So, what brings you to these parts? On a quest, are you?"

  "Yeah, as it happens." Despite himself, Ronan was quite impressed. The old guy was showing a bit of insight. "How can you tell?"

  "Ah, a lot of the warrior-types we get in here are on quests. They always have the same expression on their face. Noble, but pissed off."

  There was a moment's silence, as Ronan considered this. Thoughtfully, he sipped his beer, and then wished he hadn't. The flavour wasn't improving. Over by the fire, the dwarf turned a page of his paper and started to read about "Lovely Lenya's Night of Passion with Thorin Oakenshield". In the corner, one of the elves groaned gently and held his head in his hands. The other one had fallen asleep. Behind Ronan the salesman was studying him with intense concentration.

  "Did any of them ever tell you how... er... how they actually managed to, well... fulfil their quest?", Ronan asked, nonchalantly.

  The landlord held the glass up to the light. It sparkled like a diamond. Not a speck of dust to be seen. Just in case, he gave it another polish. "No, but then they wouldn't, would they? None of them had ever done it."

  "What?"

  "It beats me why you fighting types choose such difficult ones. A Quest for the Holy Wine-bottle of Saint Tim.... or a Quest for the Singing Sword... I mean, it takes a lifetime, and you still don't accomplish it." He put down the glass, and leant on the bar. "Now, if it was me, I'd choose something a bit easier. A Quest for a New Shirt, perhaps, or a Quest for the Tin Opener. That way, you could get up in the morning, have a bit of breakfast, do your quest, and still have half the day left."

  Mentally, Ronan counted to ten. The world was full of smart-arses, and he'd often thought that the problem with being a good guy was that you only got to slice up the really evil ones. However, something in his expression warned the landlord he might be on shaky ground, and he carried on hurriedly.

  "So... what are you Questing for?"

  "Vengeance. I seek Nekros the Black. Do you know him? Big guy. Nasty. Leaves a lot of dead bodies behind him." Ronan tensed slightly. Behind him he could feel the salesman's eyes boring into his back.

  The landlord thought for a moment. "Hm. Don't think I do..." He went to the cellar door and called down the steps. "Ethel! Do we know a Nekros the Black?"

  "Is he the one who's moved in to number seven?" a shrill voice suggested.

  "No, that's Dakros the Thick."

  "Don't know him then. Oh, bugger!"

  The sound of an enormous crash reverberated up from the cellar. The landlord crossed to a little list of "Things To Do" that he kept pinned to the wall, wrote down "More replacement glasses", and came back to the bar, shaking his head.

  "No, sorry. Can't help you there."

  "Maybe I can," came a voice from behind Ronan, and he turned to find the white-streaked salesman approaching him, hand extended.

  "Hi", the man said, "I'm Belladon." He glanced admiringly at Ronan's sword. "Hey! Nice sword! I'm in swords myself, actually. I'm Sales Executive (South Frundor Region) for the Orcbane Sword Corporation." They shook hands, and white particles fell in a shower to the floor. "Just got back this evening from a convention in Unch Haven. Left there on Friday morning. Now I know what you're gonna say!" He held up both hands to stem a non-existent argument, and Ronan's heart began to sink. "It takes more than three days to get here from Unch Haven. Sure it does, if you take the West Road then come up the Southern Highway like most people do. But I cut straight through the mountains to Carn Betw, and Bob's your uncle!" He looked down at his white-stained clothes a touch ruefully. "Yeah, I know what you're gonna say. There are drawbacks. It takes you straight through the Forest of a Million Pigeons. But if you're ever pushed for time, it's a life-saver!"

  Ronan sighed. He had met salesmen before, and he thought he knew exactly how the conversation was going to go. Firstly Belladon would tell him how his horse had come all the way from Unch Haven on only half a bale
of hay, then there'd be a couple of Hobbit jokes, then an enquiry after his sex-life, and then he'd try to sell Ronan a sword. He turned away and stared moodily at his Whitebeard Flagon as Belladon's voice droned on.

  "And you'll never believe this, but my horse came all that way on just half a bale...."

  There was a faint sound behind him, no more than a whisper of metal on leather, but a sound that might be made by a sword being drawn ever so quietly. Ronan reacted instinctively. He swung round like lightning, and the point of his dagger came to rest against Belladon's throat. The salesman froze, his sword half out of its scabbard, and his face went the colour of fresh pigeon crap. Ronan stared unblinkingly into his eyes.

  "Hey!". The sound came out like a strangled croak, and Belladon tried to swallow. His throat was suddenly bone-dry, and it felt as though he was swallowing a football-sized lump of chalk. He tried again. "I only wanted to show you my sword! I mean, it's a beauty, it's our latest model, the Orcbane Mucromatic, you'd love it, and I'm a klatting sword salesman for Trann's sake!" Fear caused his voice to rise through several octaves, until even a bat would have had difficulty in picking up the last couple of words.

  There was a pause, while Ronan stared at Belladon, and the salesman's bowels turned to iced water. But Ronan wasn't pausing for effect. He was faced with something of a dilemma. Quite simply, he wasn't sure what to do.

  When Ronan started out in warrior school, he had thought that things would be pretty straightforward. You helped good people, and killed evil people. The problem was, there was this massive grey area in the middle that no-one had warned him about. Take Belladon, for example. Anyone who quietly tries to draw their sword behind your back is probably up to no good, but the guy was apparently a sword salesman, and Ronan couldn't think of a reason why he would want to assassinate him. Instinct said that he was up to no good and would probably benefit from a quick decollation, and yet Ronan was stuck with a moral code created by his father and by the romantic literature he had absorbed as a child. As a result, he just couldn't bring himself to kill someone who might possibly be innocent.