by Bibby, James
He paused for a moment, breathing in the cool night air and listening to the sounds emerging from the shabby tavern behind him, yells, snarls, and raucous laughter, punctuated regularly by the sound of breaking glass. He was still puzzling over his father's message and over how the orcs had known where to find him, but little daydreams of beautiful women who stick their tongue on your chest kept interrupting his thoughts. He felt tired and drained. For two years now he had been busily Seeking Vengeance and Righting Wrongs, and he was beginning to wonder whether there wasn't a little more to be had from life. He looked across to where Tarl was sat on a bollard, moodily throwing stones at the large bats that skimmed the river. Now there was a guy who really enjoyed life.
But at that particular moment Tarl wasn't feeling too happy, for a most unusual thing was happening. His conscience was bothering him.Tarl had a very simple philosophy of life. Do unto others before they do you. He'd learnt the hard way not to place his trust too easily in people, and as a result he looked on friendship in the same way as he looked on money. Other people had it, but he seldom did, and when he did get his hands on some it usually wasn't around for long. It certainly wasn't something he was used to.
But in the past four days, that hulking great warrior had become his friend. This in itself was no problem, but the guy was dangerous. Boy, was he dangerous! People were trying to kill him! Normally, Tarl would have slid off as soon as Ronan had got him safely through the gates of the town. But the guy liked him, trusted him, and genuinely seemed to want him around. Not that it made too much difference... Tarl knew Ronan would soon be charging off into the wilds again, and no way was he going with him. But he actually felt guilty about this! What the hell was wrong with him?
Angrily he flung one last stone at a large moth that was wandering past, and then stomped across to where Ronan was waiting under the revolting inn-sign that depicted the Dragon's Gizzard. Light flooded out from the doorway of the tavern as they entered, and the dark figure that had followed them from the Dragon's Claw paused and waited in the shadows for a few moments before following them inside... and was itself followed moments later by a second, smaller shadow.
The bar of the Dragon's Gizzard was a large, crowded, stone-flagged room. The floor was covered in sawdust, old food, and bits of broken furniture. To one side was a huge carved fireplace, in which a blazing log fire radiated a heat level that reminded Ronan of his days in the forge. The occasional downdraught in the chimney sent the odd cloud of smoke billowing out into the room, adding to the general fug from numerous pipes. Tarl was sure that he could smell the distinctive aromatic scent of Elfweed. Along the right-hand wall ran a brightly-lit spearboard alley, in which a number of shouting, jostling men were engaged in competition.
Ronan and Tarl pushed their way through the crowd to the bar. Although Tarl looked as though he belonged here, Ronan stuck out like a sore nose, and many of the drinkers paused and watched him suspiciously. Tarl leant on the bar, feeling rather nervous, and studied the list of cocktails pinned on the wall. Normally, he was secure in his anonymity. He fitted in with the crowd in places like this, and so people didn't notice him and he was safe. But entering with Ronan, every eye in the inn had been on them and he found it a little disconcerting. Thinking that it might be a good idea to keep a fairly clear head, he regretfully decided against the delights of an exotic cocktail such as an Orc's Balls, a Gutwrencher, or a Dagger Up The Rectum, and ordered two tankards of Footrot, an Orcish beer. Then he turned to Ronan, who had picked up a menu card and was studying it with a frown on his face.
"I can't believe how far down-market this town has gone," he muttered. "Southrons, orcs and such you could make allowances for. But look over there, by the spearboard. A couple of the Undead! Not nice, that. Definitely not nice."
Ronan followed his gaze and saw two zombies standing by the man in charge of the spearboard competition. Both had all the typical characteristics - the grey-white skin, mottled with rotting black patches, the staring eyes, and jaws that hung slackly open, from which dark liquid drooled. They were heckling the competitors, and Ronan could smell the sickly-sweet scent of decay from where he stood. As he watched in horror, a finger fell off one of them, hitting the floor with an audible squelch. He turned away, disgusted.
"This is a foul place!" he hissed to Tarl.
"Oh, I don't know. The beer's not so bad." Tarl was watching a group of Dwarves who were playing cards with an Elven pack near the fire. He was wondering if he could find a way of being invited to join them. He loved playing cards with dwarves, as they normally had loads of money and played really badly. One good session of Cydorian Sweat and he might end up with enough cash to go back to the Claw...
"And have you seen the menu," continued the enraged warrior. "What sort of food is this meant to be? Bread and Buttock Pudding?"
"That's the Orc Menu", said the barman, who was pouring Tarl another beer. He was a half-orc himself, with a spine so curved that it looked as though his neck had melted, causing his head to slide down his chest until the top of his skull was level with his shoulders. "Bread and Buttock Pudding is one of our most popular dishes. Layers of fresh bread and sliced human buttock with mushrooms and giblet gravy, all baked under a pastry crust."
"That's what I've ordered," snarled an orc that was leaning on the bar next to Ronan. "Er... could you pass the finger-bowl?"
The barman picked up an earthenware bowl full of cooked fingers and slammed it down in front of the orc, who took one and started to gnaw on it with a horrid crunching sound.
"Looks like someone didn't buy a round yesterday," muttered Tarl.
Ronan felt sick. "Is there no food fit for a man to eat?", he snarled, reading down the menu. "What about this one? Irish Soup."
"That's a Broth of a Boy, sir."
"Gamey Shepherd's Pie?"
"Made with a real shepherd, that is."
"Why gamey?" asked Tarl.
"He was well hung, sir," replied the barman. "Or so the barmaid told us."
The orc picked a fragment from between his fangs with a clawed finger then leant over and pointed at an item at the bottom of the menu. "If you're looking for an absolutely yummy pudding," he volunteered, "I can thoroughly recommend the Adam's Apple Pie with Eyes Cream..."
His voice died away as he saw the look in Ronan's eyes. Tarl tried to take the menu from Ronan with the intention of finding out more about these unusual items, but found that the warrior's hand was gripping it like a vice. Looking up into his face, he found such an expression of rage there that he took an involuntary step backwards. Ronan's other hand crept towards the hilt of the sword hanging down his back, and Tarl grabbed it hastily and hung on with all his might.
"We'll eat later," he said to the barman, before turning back to the warrior. "Ronan! No!" he hissed. "Look, orcs think no more of eating human flesh than you do of eating a lamb chop! It's not their fault, it's just the way things are! And if you throw a wobbler in here and massacre half the clientele, we'll never find a lead to whoever's after you!"
For a moment, Ronan's hand continued to creep upwards and Tarl was dragged onto tiptoe, but then it stopped, and the fire in his eyes died a little. "You're right," he said. "But I feel so... so... angry! I've got to kill someone!"
Again, he reached for his sword. Tarl clung desperately to his arm. "Look!", he said. "If you want to take it out on something, have a go at the spearboard. It will make you feel better, and we might win some money!" Ronan looked across to the spearboard alley, then angrily shook off Tarl's restraining hand and pushed his way through to the organiser, who looked up at him with interest.
"Going to have a go, sir? Only a tablon a throw. Sixty percent of the takings to the winner. Leading score is sixty-five at the moment. That was Graal over there." He indicated a burly local, who was leaning confidently against the wall. Ronan looked coldly at him, then flicked a tablon to the organiser, took the three large spears, and stalked to the throwing line.
He hefted
the spear in his hand. For a moment his gaze ran round the watchers, and then it settled on the zombies. Ronan knew that all the positive emotions got left behind in the grave. The only feelings a zombie retained were bitter and malevolent. How could two such evil creatures be allowed into any city? Anger again flared up within him, and he hurled the first spear with such rage that it buried itself to the end of the blade in the twenty segment.
"Temper, temper!" admonished one of the zombies in a croaking, slurred voice. Ronan glared at him, but it was no use. You can't kill someone with a look when they're already stone dead. He weighed the second spear for a moment, then an icy calm seemed to settle on him, and he hurled it with unerring accuracy into the double twenty. A gasp went up. Now he only needed six for the lead, and so rather than risk an unlucky deflection off the two spears that were stuck in the twenty segment, he hurled the third one smack into the nineteen, inches away from the double.
A roar of appreciation went up as the organiser called "Seventy-nine!", and Ronan noticed that even Graal was applauding. Smiling, he made his way back to the bar and leant on it beside the grinning Tarl.
"Nice spears!", said Tarl. "No-one will beat that!" He was about to remind Ronan that it was his round, when a sudden commotion broke out over near the fire, and they turned to watch.
Two Southrons had started to fight and were rolling round on the floor, knives in hands, each trying to stab the other. For a moment one seemed to gain the upper hand, but then his opponent managed to hurl him backwards and he went crashing into the dwarves' table. Beer-mugs and playing cards flew everywhere, and the Southron lay there stunned. His opponent picked himself up and rushed forward, knife raised, but then he slipped on the seven of hearts (elven packs of cards have four suits; Hearts, Flowers, Ribbons, and Little-furry-animals. This says an awful lot about elves). As he crashed into another table, stunning himself, the first man staggered up only to trip over a dwarf who was scrabbling round on the floor trying to recover his winning hand (a flush of gerbils - very difficult to beat in five-card stud).
Ronan was watching all this with the tolerant amusement of a professional watching a couple of rank amateurs. He totally failed to notice the thin hooded man just behind him who quietly brought a dagger tipped with green liquid out from under his cloak. Which was a shame, because the man was Karth, Master of Assassins, and Ronan was his target.
Karth had sized up the situation within seconds of slipping into the tavern behind Ronan. He'd followed him all the way from the Dragon's Claw, where Grimbal the doorman had pointed him out, but had held off in the street. One thing you learn as a professional assassin is who you can safely deal with face to face, and who you have to creep up on very quietly. But this tavern was ideal. Half the clientele were hooded or cloaked and were conducting shady little deals whilst staring suspiciously round, and he fitted in perfectly. He had slipped the two Southrons a bronze tablon each to start a diversion at his signal, and then worked his way unnoticed along the bar until he was right behind the big warrior. And now, a quick strike with a dagger tipped with the traditional poison and another commission would be safely fulfilled. The warrior's gimpy little friend wasn't likely to give him much trouble, and no-one else would care about the death of the big stranger. It was a quiet night indeed when no-one got killed in the Dragon's Gizzard.
Silent, quick, and lethal as a snake, Karth the Assassin struck. The dagger blade flashed down toward Ronan's back... and stopped dead an inch short of the target. His wrist had smacked into the palm of someone who had stepped from behind him, someone who moved even quicker than he. The hand that held his wrist in a steely grip was slim and elegant, and Karth turned and stared at the slight figure, hooded and cloaked as he was, but smaller, no more than five foot four. It raised one elegant hand and lowered the hood, and Karth found himself looking down into a pair of green female eyes, beautiful but deadly. "You!", he hissed, and the fear was evident in his voice. The woman stared back at him unblinkingly.
"Hey, Muscles!" she said, digging Ronan in the ribs with a free finger, and the warrior turned round to find a dagger blade wavering mere inches from his back, and his would-be murderer struggling in the grip of a small and slender woman. He stared dumbfounded as she forced Karth's hand back until the dagger fell from his numbed fingers.
"Let me introduce you," she smiled, without taking her eyes from Karth's face. "This dungball is Karth, Master Assassin..." She broke off suddenly as a knife appeared in Karth's free hand, flashing towards her breast, but again it stopped short as her fingers closed around his wrist.
"Tut, tut," she said. "Naughty." And then her hand clenched, there was the sound of several minor bones in Karth's wrist snapping, and he screamed with pain and dropped the knife.
Ronan had the unaccustomed feeling of not being in control of events. This chit of a girl had saved his life? In a fit of embarrassed anger he grabbed Karth by the hair and dragged his head back, with the intention of asking him a few questions. A loud crack like a whiplash echoed round the room as Karth's neck vertebrae snapped, and his legs buckled as he fell to the floor.
The woman raised her eyes to the heavens. "Oh, nice going, Muscles," she said. "You've killed him. Now you can't find out who sent him."
Ronan gawped at her like a dwarf ogling a seam of gold. Her slim, almost boyish figure was dressed in leather that was cut warrior-style and was the same tanned colour as her skin. Her dark-brown hair was cut short, in elven fashion. She was young, no older than him, and yet despite her lightness of tone there was a tiredness and a world-weariness about her that made him feel about twelve years old.
"So you're Ronan," she mused. "I heard you were in town."
He stared at her, and the realised that his mouth was hanging open and shut it hurriedly.
"I'm Tyson. The Champion of Welbug." There was a glint of something that could have been laughter in her eyes, and then she turned away, shaking her head, and sauntered slowly over towards the spearboard.
Tarl emerged from under the table where he had taken refuge when the fight broke out. "So that's Tyson," he said. "I'm impressed. Good job she was here, she saved your life!"
"Alright, alright!" snapped Ronan. "I know!"
The barman leant across and looked down at Karth. "He's dead, is he?" he asked. "Great!" He turned and called through the door to the kitchen. "Wayne! Come and help me get this body into the fridge. Then nip down the mortuary and cancel tomorrow's order." Ronan threw him a look of distaste, but Tarl was grinning.
"Typical orcs," he said. "Never waste a good body. Reminds me of when I went to see a mate of mine in court, back in Orcville. Sentenced him to death, they did." He changed to a snarling impersonation of an orc judge. "You will be taken from this place to a place of execution, where you will be lightly poached until you are tender..." He paused, staring across to the spearboard alley. "Hang on," he said. "Look!"
Tyson was standing on the throwing line, holding three spears. All round the tavern people were whispering "Tyson! It's Tyson!" Then as she hefted the first one the place fell silent. Every eye was on her. She looked across to Ronan and winked at him, and then her arm whipped forward, and the spear thudded into the double twenty. She paused, and suddenly the reverential silence was broken by one of the zombies.
"Huh!" it said, dismissively. "Fluke! I've seen goats with a better action than that skinny bitch."
Tyson stared at it like a cat gazing at a bird through a window, and Ronan suddenly realised that she hated the evil creature every bit as much as he did. And then her arm blurred once, twice, so fast that both remaining spears were in the air at the same time. The second one thudded into the double twenty beside the first, but the third one smashed into the loud-mouthed zombie's head, ripping it from the body, and pinning it to the wall behind. The zombie's hands went up and groped along its shoulders for a few seconds as though searching for the missing head, and then foul black liquid oozed from its neck and it crumpled tiredly to the floor. For a moment the ro
om was totally silent, and then the organiser's voice rang out.
"One Undead and eighty!" he yelled, and the place erupted.
Ronan stared around the tavern in amazement. In every corner people were shouting, cheering, stamping, and chanting Tyson's name. Beside him Tarl was laughing delightedly and thumping the bar-top with his hand.
"She beat you," he chuckled. "She sodding well beat you! I've never in my life seen throwing like that!"
"She's simply the best," grinned the barman. "Better than all the rest!" And he started singing this catchy refrain to himself.
Ronan was feeling more than a little peeved. When it came to this sort of spectacle, it was normally he who was the centre of attention. He hadn't been bested at anything for a couple of years now, and yet in the space of five minutes he'd had his life saved and then been beaten at spearboard. And by a woman as well!
"She wouldn't beat me in a straight contest," he heard himself saying.
"Oh yes?" answered a soft voice behind him, and he turned to find Tyson standing grinning up at him. "And what contest do you suggest? Arm-wrestling, perhaps?" She held her arm next to his and pulled back her sleeve. Ronan's biceps was about five times the size of hers. "Come on then," she continued. "If that is your wish, let us begin." And she sat down on a stool, rested her arm upright on the table, and gazed up at him with an amused gleam in her eyes.
"A contest!" The whisper raced round the tavern and everyone closed in, straining for a view of the table. Ronan suddenly realised that she was making him look like a total pranny. If he turned down her challenge everyone would think he was scared, but if he took her on, it would be so one-sided it would look ridiculous. He reminded himself that despite her looks, she was a warrior, and obviously a good one. The way she had dealt with Karth.... and the way she had thrown those spears.... he'd better take this seriously.