Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  "We could disembowel him and roast his entrails over a fire."

  "We could cut his eyes and his balls out and play marbles with them."

  "We could stick our spears up our little bums and let him go."

  This last suggestion came in a deep and frightening voice from behind the orcs. There was a moment's stunned silence, then they all turned round and stared, Tarl was nearly sick with relief. For there in the clearing stood salvation, in the form of Ronan. His sword was drawn and he was holding it two-handed, in the casually relaxed way of someone who is totally at home with it. To his left stood Puss the donkey, eyes ablaze with excitement. It opened its mouth and brayed threateningly, and the forest echoed to its strident cry.

  Despite this unexpected development, the orc leader wasn't too worried. Seven onto three isn't normally an overwhelming advantage, but when one of the three is a wimp with a novelty sword and the second is a small brown donkey, things are looking a little better.

  "OK, boys," he said, calmly. "Let's get the big black one. Standard pattern. Go!"

  The orcs may have looked a little shambolic when they were marching, but they'd been together a good while and they were professional killers. They knew how to fight. Five of them charged Ronan, fanning out to come at him in a broad front, while a sixth dodged to one side and fitted an arrow to his bow.

  Ronan moved rapidly to the right away from the archer, so that the charging orcs had to veer to come after him. Now, instead of attacking him in line abreast, they came one after the other, scrambling over the rough ground and snarling with excitement. But as Ronan suddenly stopped and turned, his mind was as clear and cold as a mountain lake. As always, warrior training had taken over, and events seemed to move in slow motion as thoughts flashed through his brain like knives.

  Firm footing here, turn and cut two-handed, sword perfectly balanced as it hisses through the air, stupid look of surprise on the head of the first orc as it topples from the shoulders, step over the body, black blood spurting from the neck, could be slippery, careful, a back-hand cut to the stomach of the second orc, watch it, those entrails definitely will be slippery, a couple of steps back, two of them coming at once, dodge that spear, sword arcing down, don't know my own strength sometimes, it's wedged in his chest cavity, let go with one hand and grab that spear, ouch, damn orcs putting spikes down the shaft, like needles in the palm, bugger, blank off the pain, pull sword free, yes, tug him forward by his own spear, smash pommel of sword into his face, ha, that nasty invention of Tazmir's, the needle-sharp pommel, always surprises them, straight through the eye into the brain, mustn't forget the archer, didn't expect that, need a shield, fifth orc will do, he's stabbing, a look of terror on his face, easy to dodge, grab him, wallop! out cold, don't think I've killed him, check archer, he hasn't got a clear shot, check orc leader, klat! He's after Tarl, have to be a thrown dagger, klat! I haven't enough time, he's going to get him.........

  Tarl had been standing staring open-mouthed as Ronan blurred into action and blood, guts, and bits of orc sprayed everywhere. This was exactly the sort of thing he'd always wanted to happen to people who were being nasty to him, yet he had to admit that the reality was a little on the gruesome side. Poor bastards. But then a snarled curse brought him sharply back to his own situation, and he turned to find the orc leader leaping at him. Yelping with fear, Tarl sprang backwards and fell over a tree root. The orc raised its sword to strike and Tarl, terror-stricken, lifted his arms to protect himself. A huge wash of fear seemed to sweep from his brain along his arms, and a surge of blue flame shot out of his hands and enveloped the orc. For a couple of seconds it stood there, rooted to the spot with surprise and smoking gently, and then one of its charred eyebrows fell off. Snarling, it raised its sword again, but before it could move there was a loud "thock" and the tip of Ronan's dagger was poking out through its throat. Hot sticky blood spurted out over Tarl's upraised arms, and then the orc crashed to the ground beside him and Tarl gasped with relief.

  Ronan's brain was still ticking over. Nice throw, got the bastard, Tarl's OK, interesting trick with the blue flame, klat, I needed that dagger for the archer, grab an orc spear, throw that, klat! he's behind that tree, can't get him, and you know how good orc archers are, put an arrow in a moving eye-socket at fifty paces, some of them, we're sitting ducks, klat! we've had it, he's lining up on Tarl...

  Ringworm, the orc archer, was feeling pretty confident. He knew exactly how good he was with a bow. Shame about the other lads, but then they wouldn't be needing their share of the fee any more. Leering to himself, he decided to take out the small snivelling human first, and he was just swinging his bow towards Tarl when a screeching braying noise seemed to freeze every muscle in his body. Something like a sledgehammer with teeth slammed into him from behind and he went sprawling over the roots of the tree. Looking up he found he was staring into the glazed red eyes of the small brown donkey from a range of about six inches. It felt like about twenty miles too close. Before he could move it struck like a snake, bared teeth slashing like knives, and Ringworm was screaming and writhing on the ground with blood spurting from the stump of his severed arm.

  Tarl dragged himself upright. He couldn't believe how quickly all this had happened. Thirty seconds ago, he had been in imminent danger of a horrible death. Now, the people who had threatened him were scattered in bloody bits all over the forest. He watched in horrified fascination as Ronan hung the unconscious survivor from a handy branch by its belt before walking across to the screaming orc and dispatching it with a quick stab of the sword. Tarl turned away, unwilling to watch, and found himself face to face with the donkey. It was holding the severed arm in its jaws and seemed fairly happy with life.

  "Yeuch! Puss! What are you doing with that in your mouth?" asked the revolted Tarl.

  The donkey just stared at him pityingly. "I thought you might want to shake hands," it thought. "What do you think I'm doing? It's my dinner for tonight. One Orc arm, to go." It looked at Tarl disparagingly. "I've known glaciers that moved faster than your brain, mate," it thought, and turned away.

  Tarl sat down on a rock. He found he was shaking. Normally, when he shook like this, it meant he'd had a pretty good time the night before. But to be shaking for no decent reason whatsoever, that was no fun. No fun at all. If this is adventure, he thought, you can stuff it. Suddenly, Ronan spoke from about two foot behind him, and Tarl fell off the rock.

  "Don't do that!" he said, as he picked himself up.

  "Sorry, " Ronan apologised. "I'm used to moving silently. That's what Warrior School does for you." He bent down and wiped his bloodstained sword on the orc leader's back. "You took him by surprise with that fireball," he added. "How did you..."

  "I don't want to talk about it!"

  Ronan looked at him with interest, then noticed the sword handle in his hand. It looked strangely familiar. "That was brave," he added casually. "Trying to take on eight orcs with a broken sword."

  "Bloody thing!", swore Tarl. "Just wait until I go back to Port Raid."

  "What?" Ronan was suddenly very still.

  "I'm going to get my money back from Elric if it's the last thing I do. Honest Elric, indeed! I should have known better. One tablon, he charged me! You don't get a decent sword for that sort of price, even in a sale." Tarl paused, and looked at Ronan as he re-sheathed his sword. "Funny", he thought. "He looks really embarrassed. He must think I'm a right pranny, owning a weapon like that!"

  Ronan was embarrassed all right. He was wondering how many more of his father's duff swords had fallen apart just at the wrong time for other poor innocents. Not that innocent was the first word that sprung to mind when you looked at Tarl. Thoughtfully, Ronan pulled his dagger out of the orc leader's neck and crossed to where the last pitiful survivor was dangling from a tree. It was clearly regaining consciousness and was beginning to kick and squirm. Tarl followed him, trying not to look at the remnants of the others.

  "Strange to find mountain orcs in the middl
e of the forest," he said. "What do you think they were after?"

  Ronan carefully wiped his dagger on the orc's filthy jerkin, and it stopped wriggling and went very, very still. Tarl had seen livelier statues. Ronan looked it carefully in the eye, and held up the dagger. "I'm hoping to persuade this creature to tell us," he growled. The orc went even stiller. Tarl felt sick.

  However, he needn't have worried. Although Ronan had the look of someone whose greatest pleasure in life is removing people's kidneys via their rectum with a sharp knife, inside he too was feeling queasy. For Ronan had this problem with guilt. Even three years in warrior school hadn't been enough to shake off his scruples. Every time he killed someone, no matter how deserving or how fair a fight, he was left wondering whether he had done the right thing, or whether his mother would have approved. He was currently fretting over having had to put that wounded orc out of its misery. The idea of torturing the terrified orc hanging in front of him made him feel ill. He had totally flunked the Interrogation and Torture module of his Warrior course. However, he had learned that quite often you don't need to torture a prisoner. You just need him to believe you are going to.

  Ronan smiled cruelly at the orc, and gently touched the tip of its nose with the dagger. "I am Ronan, Vanquisher of Evil," he drawled. "And this is Tarl. We are going to ask you some questions. If you lie, you die. Understand?"

  The orc's eyes were squinting horribly as it stared at the dagger. Somehow it managed to nod its head vigorously up and down without moving its nose a fraction. "Fine by me, guv!" it gasped. "Fine! Fine-fine-fine-fine-fine!"

  "OK then," Ronan continued. "Name?"

  "Ronan, Vanquisher of Evil."

  "Not my name, idiot!"

  "Oh, er, Tarl then," replied the orc, apologetically.

  "No, no, no, not me either!" muttered Tarl. He was seriously concerned that another thirty foot of orc intestine was about to join that already on the forest floor, and he'd seen enough to last him a lifetime. "Your name, you plank! What is it?

  "It's the title I use to distinguish me from other people," gabbled the orc.

  "But what is this title!" yelled Tarl.

  Light dawned for the orc. "Oh! It's Bleb!"

  Ronan smiled mirthlessly. "Now we're getting somewhere. Well, Bleb, what are you doing here?"

  "Messing my trousers," came the truthful reply.

  Ronan wrinkled up his nose in distaste. "No, I meant what is your band of orcs doing here?"

  Bleb's eyes revolved rapidly, taking in the scene. "Well, most of them are lying round without any heads on," he muttered.

  Tarl laid a restraining hand on Ronan's arm. "Let me," he said confidently, and turned to the terrified orc. "Look," he continued, “why are you here?"

  "Coo, don't ask me, guv, existentialist philosophy is a closed book to me."

  Tarl thought this one through for a few moments and then turned back to Ronan. "I don't think he's quite as dumb as he looks," he said.

  Ronan decided to up the stakes slightly and exerted the slightest pressure on the dagger. A small droplet of black blood trickled from the tip of Bleb's nose, and Ronan ruthlessly suppressed the thought that his father would definitely not have approved. "Listen, dragon-breath," he said in a low growl, "your band of orcs had a special reason for coming here, into this forest. Tell me what it is."

  "It's a big place with lots of trees."

  Ronan's eyes bulged, and Tarl looked away. Bleb, sensing that maybe this wasn't the required answer, babbled on. "But if you want to know what the reason is, it's because that man in the pub paid us to come out here and kill you."

  "Kill me?"

  "That's what he said. You'll find a black-skinned warrior with a little bear-head hanging round his neck, he said. Ambush him and bring back the body."

  "Which pub was that?

  "The Dragon's Claw, I think. In Welbug. Rough place. Lot of vomit on the floor, and broken glasses and things. Well, there was when we left."

  Ronan turned to Tarl. "Do you know this tavern?"

  "I think I've heard of it... the roughest in the whole of Welbug, if I'm right."

  Ronan nodded. "Then that's where we start," he said, and lowered his dagger to the orc's throat.

  Tarl turned away, unable to watch, but the sight behind him made him want to retch. Flies the size of small birds were already whanging through the trees and homing in on the stickier bits of dead orc. The corpses were a mass of jostling, buzzing, swearing insects. He turned back.

  "Look, I don't..." he began, but then he saw the look on Ronan's face. He was staring at the orc with a sickly expression and the dagger in his hand was shaking. A wave of realisation swept over Tarl. The guy couldn't bring himself to kill the creature in cold blood! The great softie! Tarl felt a sudden affection for the big warrior. Trying not to smile he stepped forward and confronted the orc.

  "Listen," he said. "We're not going to kill you. But we're going to Welbug and we don't want anyone to know. So we have two choices. One, you promise not to say anything, and head west as fast and as far as you can. Just disappear. OK? Or two, we take you with us to Welbug."

  "Take me with you?" repeated the orc, suspiciously.

  "Yeah," said Tarl innocently, and then dropped his little bombshell. "In a boat."

  The orc's jaw dropped open, and sweat broke out on its face. Its skin had turned the colour of month-old milk.

  "No! Lemmego! Please, I won't say a word, honest I won't, go on, honest-honest-honest-honest-honest, just don't take me inna boat, OK?"

  Smiling, Tarl stepped forward, took the knife from Ronan and sliced through the creature's belt. It fell to the ground in a heap, and then picking itself up it dashed off through the trees towards the west, gibbering with panic.

  "He won't stop till he gets to the Forest of Dreams," grinned Tarl. "Trust me," he continued, as Ronan looked at him doubtfully. "I've lived with orcs. I understand them. It's common knowledge that they hate water, but what few people know is that they hate boats even more. They get seasick just looking at pictures of boats. Orc galley slaves have literally thrown their guts up during rough weather. The worse thing you can do to an orc is threaten to take him for a boat trip. Mind you, don't ever carry out the threat. Orcs are bad enough at the best of times, but one which has just regurgitated the entire contents of its stomach all over your shoes is about as unpleasant as you can get."

  Ronan nodded. "Well, OK," he said. "I guess it's better than having to kill him." Then taking his horses reins, he began to lead it back to the path.

  Tarl hopped nimbly to one side as the donkey pushed past him and trotted after Ronan, the orc arm still hanging from its mouth. "Just the companions you need for a nice safe journey,” he thought to himself. "A psycho-killer with a guilt complex, and the Donkey from Hell. Still, when we get to Welbug you can slide out quick. We're only a couple of hours away, and now the orcs are dead, no-one knows where we are. You should be safe until then!"

  And with this thought in mind he set out after them on foot.

  Anthrax the Wizard watched the tiny figure of Tarl scampering after Ronan, and then muttered a command and the crystal ball turned abruptly opaque.

  "So they got away," he mused. "Hm. Nekros seems to be losing his grip. This might turn out to be more enjoyable than I thought. Better let him know, I suppose. It might be more fun to tell Ritta and let him pass on the news." And with a smile hovering about his mouth he snapped his fingers, and the crystal ball flared with white light once more.

  WELBUG

  In the First Age, the City of Welbug was a place of great beauty. Here lived elves that were noble. Fair were they to look upon, and so fit and full of good health that they became legendary for their vigour. And in other towns, should any child be weak and sickly, his parents would look upon him and sigh, saying, "Alas, he is not a Welbugger"...

  But then did the renegade wizard, Amplex the Foul-mouthed, turn his attention to the city, assuming friendly guise. And the elves saw through him not,
for they were innocent, and legion were the drinks he bought. And so did he introduce them to Tupperware, and to labour-saving artefacts of rare device! And then, as they grew worldly-wise, did he teach them of contact magazines and bondage, and so were the elves of Welbug debased! And many was the elf in need of penicillin...

  THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY

  From a distance, Welbug still looked like the beautiful elven city it once was. Built upon a spit of land at the confluence of three rivers, it was enclosed by ancient walls that had never been breached in battle. Slender stone towers and elegant marble turrets reached towards the sky, and the reds and pinks of the myriad roof-tiles glittered in the evening light like a million sunstones.

  However, close-to it was a different story. No sooner had Ronan and Tarl passed through the main gate into the city than a small ugly man was attempting to sell them his sister. When they showed no interest, he attempted to sell her to the donkey, and it was only when Ronan laid his hand on the hilt of his sword that the man slunk away, muttering curses.

  As they passed up Wolfpole, the road that led from the gate to the city centre, Tarl was shocked at the changes in the few years since he had last been here. He stared around sadly. The houses were run-down and unpainted, with grimy walls and overgrown gardens, and many windows were cracked and broken. A number of shops were closed and boarded up. The remainder had all moved sharply down-market, and seemed to be mainly concentrating on the seedy and the squalid. The streets were dirty and unswept, and litter and filth was gathering in the gutters. And where once the pervading smell had been of gardens full of flowers and blossom, now there was the stench of blocked drains and rotting waste.

  And the people! There was a fair ration of fun-seekers, tourists and hedonists strolling round with laughing faces, looking for the pleasures that could obviously still be had. But they were leavened with an equal number of the flotsam of life. Surly Easterlings, lounging in unfriendly groups on street-corners, swarthy Southrons jostling the passers-by, and orcs gazing round with unfriendly eyes and snarling to each other in their barbaric tongue. Half the under-life of the world seemed to have ended up on the streets of Welbug. Tarl was saddened. The atmosphere reminded him of Goblin City in the Northern Mountains, and he had always firmly believed that if Midworld ever suffered from haemorrhoids, you would stick the suppositories up Goblin City.