Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  After about ten minutes, Ronan stirred. "So." he sighed. "My path lies through Welbug. The Ancient City of the Elves."

  "What?" laughed Tarl. "Elves? Where have you been the past thousand years? They call it the Pleasure City of the East, these days. The place is a right den of iniquity. Harlots, booze, gambling, drugs... everything that makes life worthwhile! As a matter of fact, I'm on my way there now. I'm planning a few weeks R and R."

  "It's a pity you're on foot," said Ronan. "Our paths could have merged, and I could do with a companion I can trust." Tarl blinked at this. He wasn't used to people who thought he was trustworthy. "But I have need of speed", Ronan continued, "and I doubt if my horse could carry us both as far as Welbug."

  His horse whinnied, as if in agreement, and out of the darkness once again came the demented braying of the Donkey from Hell. Only this time, it sounded mere yards away. Tarl and Ronan stared in surprise as a small, unkempt creature ambled painfully out of the shadows and stood looking at them. It was a donkey, thin and dirty with matted light-brown hair, that looked as though it had been wandering round the wastelands for at least five years. Suddenly, it threw back its head and brayed again. Close to, there was a strident screeching edge to the bray that chilled the blood. Tarl shivered.

  "I think it's hungry", said Ronan. Rising, he crossed to his horse and unstrapped its fodder-bag from the saddle. Tossing it to Tarl, he said "Here. Give him some food. If he's tameable, he could be the answer to our problem. We could ride to Welbug together."

  Tarl took some hay from the bag and held it nervously on his outstretched hand. "Come on, ace", he called encouragingly. The donkey's nostrils twitched hungrily and it ambled across. "Lovely!" it thought. "Food!" And it reached out, nudged the irritating grassy stuff aside, and attempted to take a large chunk of nice tasty flesh out of Tarl's arm.

  An hour later, the donkey was lying beside Ronan's horse, listening to Ronan and Tarl reminisce. It had a full stomach for the first time in ages, having eaten four pounds of dried meat from Ronan's supply bag, and had decided that it would be worth sticking with these two if they could provide a decent dinner each night, even if it meant having the little smelly one riding round on its back all day long. After all, he didn't look as though he weighed much, and he would be handy if the food ran out. And there was something rather touching about him...

  Tarl was wrapped up in his blanket, a filthy brown object that looked and smelt as though it had been used as a nappy by a succession of incontinent apatodons. "I always wanted a pet when I was tiny," he said to Ronan, "but I soon learned not to get too attached to things. Any animal unlucky enough to come into our house wasn't around long. Two days at the most and it would end up in bits on a plate, fried to a crisp and swimming in some foul-tasting muddy stuff that my old Gran claimed was called gravy. Even the hamster I borrowed from the boy next door. When I gave it back to him he beat me up. And I'd spent ages gluing the bones together!"

  He looked fondly across at the donkey. He'd got over the initial shock of being attacked now. After all, why shouldn't a starving donkey fancy a mouthful of Tarl? He'd often eaten donkey-meat. And there was definitely something rather touching about the little creature...

  "Goodnight, boy" he called, and then turned back to Ronan. "We'd better give him a name."

  The donkey pricked up its ears. It had always longed for a name of its very own, but no-one had ever before thought it important enough to merit one. It had always just been "the donkey". Accurate enough, as names go, and descriptive, but a shade lacking in imagination. Now, all of a sudden, someone was going to give it a real live name of its very own. It sat up in anticipation. What would the small human choose? Something with a bit of a bite, hopefully. Killer. Or Genghis, perhaps. Or maybe Beelzebub.

  "I think I'll call him Puss," said Tarl. "I always wanted a little kitten."

  The donkey swore quietly to itself. "Typical!" it thought. "There must be hundreds of travellers wandering around in the north, and I latch on to one with the brain of a duck." It sighed and lay down with its back pointedly towards Tarl. "Still", it thought as it drifted off to sleep, "it could have been worse. At least it isn't Tibbles."

  AMBUSH

  Orcs... a right shower of bastards.

  THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY

  Orcs are about as elegant and sympathetic as a tapeworm, but with absolutely none of the good points. Even worse, they NEVER buy a round.

  TARL'S WORLDWIDE GUIDE TO FREE BOOZE

  A beer-glass flew across the room and smashed into the wall, showering Kalik the barman with fragments. Seconds later, the orc who had thrown it flew across the room and smashed into the wall, showering Kalik the barman with fragments. The rest of the orcs gave a loud and extremely drunken cheer, and then launched into an old Orcish drinking-song, "Zuluh Bachgag Mizgag Ul" ("If You Haven't Bought a Round, You're Going to Die").

  Kalik wiped himself down with a cloth and sighed. He was close to exhaustion now. It was a House Rule that whichever members of staff were on duty when an orc party arrived in the pub had to stay on duty until it left. That way, the landlord wouldn't have too many staff wiped out during one drinking session. There were compensations, of course. A week in lieu, danger money, and free health and accident insurance. But Kalik had been stuck here for thirty-six hours now without a break, and he knew he couldn't last out much longer. (For details of Orcs and their drinking habits, see Appendix 3.)

  He looked across at Andros, the other barman, and shook his head admiringly. What a hero! Four hours ago they had nearly run out of glasses, and Andros had volunteered to go out into the room and collect the empties. It was a suicide mission, but he'd nearly made it. He was on his way back to the bar with his third tray-full when the orcs grabbed him and hustled him across to the spearboard alley that ran along one wall of the room. Now he was stapled to the board, and a group of laughing orcs were standing at the oche forty foot away, hurling razor-sharp spears at him and trying to see how close they could get without actually hitting him. So far Andros was unhurt, but it probably wouldn't be long now. The orcs were getting pretty drunk...

  Kalik ducked as another glass flew over his head. Klatting orcs! He could remember when they weren't even allowed through the city gates. Now Welbug was full of them, and even members of the Town Council consorted with them. He looked across to the corner of the room where the orc sergeant was deep in conversation with the smarmy figure of Councilman Ritta. As he watched, Ritta handed over a heavy leather purse and the orc nodded and stood up.

  "Right lads," he snarled, "the party's over. We've got a job on."

  Instantly the room was silent. The sergeant strolled over and inspected the other orcs, most of who were trying to stand to attention. He stopped in front of one who was slumped across a table, dead to the world.

  "Can't take your ale, eh, Shagger?" he snarled, and pulling the comatose orc's head back by its lank greasy hair, he sliced its throat open with his dagger. Black blood fountained across the table and the sergeant let the head fall back and turned to the remainder of the orcs. "No room for wimps in this outfit!" he growled, then after wiping the dagger on the dead orc's hair he spat copiously and accurately on the back of its neck and swaggered out, followed raggedly by the other orcs.

  Ritta stared at the dead orc with an expression of distaste on his podgy features and then sidled out of the door. Andros sagged against the spearboard, weak with relief. The last spear thrown had grazed his side, but he was otherwise unhurt. He looked across to the bar, expecting Kalik to come and set him free. But Kalik's head was resting on his arms, which in turn were resting on the bar-top, and his eyes were closed. Kalik was sleeping the sleep of the deeply relieved.

  Tarl was feeling deeply uneasy. It wasn't just the oppression of the gloomy dank forest they were riding through. It wasn't just the mist that curled about their legs or the water that dripped endlessly from the forest canopy high above. It wasn't just that he was seated on a donkey that seemed to view him as
a prospective lunch. No, there was something else. A threatening feeling, a sense of imminent danger. He remembered the vision of the Smith saying, "Your enemies are everywhere." Tarl shifted uncomfortably on the donkey's bony back. Far from being a useful companion and protector, this Ronan could turn out to be a definite liability. Still, they were no more than an hour's ride from Welbug. Once they reached the city he would quietly slide off. Ronan could go charging about on his quest and get himself killed, but Tarl would be safely engaged in his own quest. A Quest for the Most Lethal Cocktail in Town.

  As Tarl dreamt of Alcoholic Refreshments Beyond the Ken of Mortal Man, Ronan was still puzzling over his father's message. He had been thinking about it for three days now and still hadn't got anywhere. A sword that sings... well, yes, there were rather a lot of those in legend. But which one? And what potion? What dwarfish chart? Ronan was hoping for a few answers in Welbug, but he was beginning to wonder how he was going to find them. Welbug was a big place, apparently. And you can't just walk up to people in the street and ask them if they have the odd dwarfish chart they don't want, or if they have any swords with interesting vocal capabilities.

  He was just mulling this over when suddenly his horse tossed its head uneasily and whinnied gently, and Tarl's donkey stopped dead and stared along the path ahead. Its nostrils whiffled slightly and then a strange gleam came into its eyes, and it licked its lips. Tarl himself was peering nervously around, and little sparks were fizzing out of his fingertips and drifting down to fizzle out in the mud. He turned to Ronan.

  "Someone's coming. Someone dangerous. I can feel it."

  The two of them sat listening. At first, the only sound that could be heard was the steady drip of water from the branches, but then in the distance they could just make out the rhythmic tramp of feet and the clink of armour.

  "Whoever they are, they're coming this way", said Ronan. "I think maybe we should hide."

  "Good idea!" said Tarl. "At last!" he thought. "I'm getting through to him." For the past few days, Ronan had been expounding his method of dealing with threats or dangers - meet them head-on, stare them down, and belt them with a sword if they so much as blink at you. Tarl had spent the whole time desperately advocating a more softly-softly approach. At the first sniff of danger, run like buggery was his motto, although he'd managed to couch it in terms more acceptable to a guy like Ronan.

  He was greatly relieved when Ronan dismounted and led his horse away from the track, brushing through the damp ferns into the deeper gloom of the forest. He wasn't so happy when Ronan stopped behind a large boulder, still in sight of the glade, and whispered "I want to see who it is." However, Tarl didn't fancy wandering further into the trees all by himself and so, after shushing the donkey (which was contentedly chewing on a dead squirrel it had found), he crouched down in the ferns next to the warrior and waited.

  As the tramping of feet approached, it began to sound less rhythmic, and more disorganised. They could hear a voice snarling "left, right, left, right", though for all the good it was doing, it might as well have saved its breath. There was the occasional "clunk" that sounded like someone being hit on the helmet with the flat of a sword, and a number of muttered curses and groans. Tarl was only too familiar with voices like that. "Orcs!" he thought. "I hope its no-one I know."

  The orcs marched raggedly into the clearing and then, at a command from their leader, came to a halt. There were eight of them, all armed to the hilt. Their leader carried a short brutal sword and a large metal hammer studded with nails, while the rest carried slim-headed spears with backward-pointing barbs down the length of the shaft. A couple had bows slung round their necks.

  Tarl knew that these were not the sort of people you would ask to a dinner-party if you wanted to impress the neighbours. He'd lived among Orcs for a while, and could even pass for a half-Orc if he had to (although his skin was not naturally dark-grey, it had merely gone that colour after a lifetime spent avoiding baths and getting up at five in the afternoon, just as the sun was going down). He knew they were a nasty, vicious, cruel race.

  "OK, this looks like a good place for the ambush," shouted the orc leader. "Bleb, Vomit, you two scout round, look for the best place for the bows to set up. Sputum, you sort out some food. We'd better eat before he gets here. Ringworm, get up to where the track disappears and keep guard. We don't want him surprising us."

  One of the orcs started rummaging in the filthy sack he had been carrying slung over his shoulder. A second one slouched off up the path, and the two with bows began to wander off the path into the forest, but to Tarl's relief they stopped short of where he and Ronan were crouched, and stared up into a tree.

  "Here, Vomit, isn't that a bird's nest up there?" said one.

  "Yeah," snarled the other, peering up into the foliage. "I think it is. Let's shake it down." Gleefully they grabbed the thin bole of the tree and began to shake it from side to side. In the clearing, one of the other orcs started to complain in an irritatingly whiny voice. The leader turned on him.

  "For Grak's sake, Knob-rot, don't you ever shut up! We're here because the Boss told us to be here. I don't know how he knew the target would be coming this way... he just knew." The leader turned and took one of the foul-looking pieces of dried flesh that Sputum had produced from his sack, and bit into it hungrily. Knob-rot took the piece that was handed to him, and looked at it scornfully.

  "And why we're eating this crap, when there's a human about to stumble into our ambush..."

  "We are not eating the human!", the leader cut in. "We are not eating him because the boss wants to see his body, as proof that we've done the job. And if he doesn't get the proof, it will be us going into the pot instead. Comprenez, dung-brain?"

  At the side of the clearing, Bleb and Vomit were still violently shaking the tree, until Vomit suddenly yelled "It's coming!" He stood back, staring up at the falling nest with an evil grin on his face, and then after a moment, his grin began to falter. The nest seemed to have been falling for quite a while without getting much nearer. Perspective wasn't a thing he knew much about, but he suddenly realised that something a long way off that looked very small could actually be pretty damn big. Such as that nest...

  Bleb desperately leapt to one side, but Vomit remained rooted to the spot. His mouth opened, but nothing came out, and then an eight-foot nest weighing a quarter of a ton smashed down on top of him. Out of it bounced an egg that was a good three feet in diameter. It ricocheted off a boulder and landed a couple of yards away from where Tarl was crouched in the ferns. For a moment, the forest seemed to reverberate, and then there was a stunned silence, which was broken by Bleb.

  "Here, chief, come and look at the size of this nest that's fallen on top of Vomit", he called. The leader ran over, followed by the other orcs, and stared at the huge tangled mess of dead branches and festa vines.

  "Grak's blood!" he swore. "You've only shaken down a Pakas nest, that's all! Vomit?" He bent down, grabbed hold of the only bit of Vomit that could still be seen (half a leg), and pulled. "Ah, it's no good, we'll never get him out from under all that. Pity. I could have done with a bit of fresh meat for tea. We won't get much off his foot."

  "He had mange as well, chief," said Bleb. "We could have got some lovely orc scratchings off him. Tell you what, though. There was a klatting big egg in the nest."

  "What? A Pakas egg? Bloody lovely, man! Where did it go?"

  Bleb pointed towards Tarl's boulder. "Over there somewhere, behind that rock."

  Tarl was horrified to hear the sound of the Orcs pushing their way through the ferns towards him. He buried his head in his arms and tried to squirm even deeper into the leaf-mould that carpeted the forest floor. For a moment, he thought that he might not be seen, and then a voice spoke directly above his head.

  "Well, well, what have we here?" It was the leader of the orcs. "What are you up to, sonny boy?"

  Tarl leapt up, yelling "Klat! They've found us, Ronan!" and stared around wildly. In front of him in
a rather unpleasant semi-circle stood the orcs, grinning horribly in anticipation. And beside him stood... no-one! "Ronan?" he said in a voice so small it was invisible. But there was no reply. Ronan, his horse, and the donkey had vanished as though the earth had opened up and swallowed them.

  It was one of those moments when your whole life flashes before your eyes. Normally, Tarl would have enjoyed this, as his life included some pretty interesting moments. However, when you're all alone apart from a group of orcs who have just suggested shoving a large spear up a very private part of your anatomy and spit roasting you, you have other things on your mind.

  Quickly, he weighed up the options. Running like buggery was out. He knew from previous experience that talking your way round a hungry orc is next to impossible. It was unlikely that all seven were going to drop dead from heart attacks. There was only one thing left. He was going to have to try fighting his way out.

  Mentally cursing the fact that, after a lifetime of cowardice, mixing with some nutty warrior had brought him to such a state of affairs, he drew his sword. Although he'd bought it years ago, he'd never before needed to take it out of its scabbard. There had always been another way. Not this time, though.

  "OK, you scumbags!" he snarled. Whoops. That sounded a little shrill. We don't want them thinking we're scared. He grabbed hold of his voice and dragged it down a couple of octaves. "If you want trouble, you can have it. All at once, or one at a time. I don't mind."

  Fired by desperation, he took a couple of steps forward and brandished his sword. To his horror, the blade fell off the handle. For a brief moment, hope flickered in his mind, as it looked as though a couple of the orcs might die of laughter. But then the leader's face hardened. He stepped forward and placed one foot on Tarl's blade.

  "Right, lads. Looks as though we'll be able to have a bit of fun with this one. Any suggestions?"