by Bibby, James
He sat down opposite her, positioned his arm, and clasped her hand. "As you've chosen the method of contest," she said, "I would suggest it is fair for me to start it." Ronan wasn't aware that he'd made any choice, but he wasn't going to argue. "When I say ready... go... then we start," she continued. "Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"OK then." She wriggled herself into a comfortable position, and then looked into his eyes. And looked. And looked.
"By the Gods," thought Ronan, "she's beautiful!" Suddenly he was very aware of the feel of her hand in his, the touch of her breath on his face, the scent of her skin... He studied her face. Her huge green eyes seemed to be glowing, and she moistened her lips. Her breath was coming faster, and then she was slowly leaning forward towards him, nearer and nearer. Ronan's stomach suddenly seemed to be filled with a million butterflies as he realised that she was going to kiss him. Her free hand came up to caress his neck, her mouth was only an inch from his, and for an instant his heart seemed to stop. And then her lips parted as she breathed the words "Ready-go!" and her arm was slamming his down onto the table-top with such force that he was sent flying off his stool. Then she was standing over him, arm raised in triumph, and the place had erupted with so much cheering that the roof seemed in danger of coming off.
Ronan sat on the floor, horrified, with the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth. No, this wasn't defeat, this was humiliation! He stared round at the yelling, exultant crowd, then back at Tyson, and the realisation hit him. Klat, she was good! Skilled with weapons, faster than anyone he'd ever met, clever, cunning... the way she'd suckered him and led him along was beautiful! Even while the macho male side of his brain was desperately searching for excuses, the warrior side was lost in admiration. And what a leader! If she'd asked the people in the tavern to march with her into battle against an army of dragons, at that moment they'd have flocked to her banner! Even Tarl was cheering and applauding her. And then she was smiling down at him.
"I'm sorry about my little... subterfuge," she said. "But against a guy like you, what's a poor girl to do?" Suddenly she bent and kissed him on the cheek, and then she was striding to the door between the ranks of cheering people, grinning and slapping their outstretched hands as she went.
The barman walked over to Ronan and proffered his hand to help him up. "Don't think that you've lost anyone's respect," he said. "Even to be challenged by Tyson is an honour in this town. None here would have done better."
Ronan nodded his thanks, but absently. For he hadn't really heard. He was thinking hard. With all the background noise, he was certainly the only one in the room who had heard Tyson whisper something as she bent to kiss him. Just three little words. "The Claw. Midnight."
What the hell was she up to?
In the private quarters of his stronghold near Setel, Nekros received the news of Karth's failure with apparent equanimity. But the moment that the crystal in front of him darkened he swore violently and hurled a fireball across the room at a large vase in the corner. Unfortunately, the fireball missed by several feet and struck the old cleaning crone who was polishing his armour. There was a rather soggy explosion, and Nekros stared angrily at the resulting mess.
"Typical!" he thought. "Klatting typical!"
Nekros had never had much luck with magic from the day Shikara had managed to destroy her book of spells. The Torque of Vataan had given him some power, but not as much as he had expected, and his control was at best patchy. Sometimes the magic worked perfectly, but at others it was downright dangerous. There was that time when he had hurled a curse at a servant and missed. The spell had rebounded from the mirror straight at him, and Nekros had spent a hundred years as a very disgruntled statue standing in his own bedroom.
However, the combination of his magical abilities and his fighting skill had been enough to make him a force to be reckoned with. He'd had a pretty good time seeing the world, being evil, and generally scaring the crap out of people. But then he began to realise that there was so much more to do. It was pointless hiring himself out to evil leaders less talented than himself. He could do their job so much better...
Taking over the Tribe of Fallon had given him a power base, and for a satisfying couple of years they had terrorised the countryside, looting, burning and killing. But the problem was, cities controlled countries, and whenever they rolled up at a city, the people would just close the gates and fire insults and arrows at them from the walls. Strong though the Tribe were, they weren't an army.
But then, four years ago, his Backers had contacted him. They were organised. They had money. They had plans. And they had Anthrax the Wizard. Slowly but surely he had followed their plans, until the Six Cities of Baq d'Or were ready to fall. Setel and Goblin City were theirs. Minas Welvair, Minas Tryk and Malvenis hung by a thread. Only Welbug and that Tyson woman had caused any problem. But their plans were too intricate, their plots were too clever. Within days she would be dead and Welbug would fall, and with it the whole of Baq d'Or. And then they could turn their attention to the other countries of Midworld...
Then suddenly, a couple of days ago, Anthrax had foretold the advent of this black warrior from nowhere, and warned that he could cause not only the destruction of all their plans, but the death of Nekros himself! Nekros had moved quickly, but the warrior had somehow stumbled past both attempts to remove him. Well, Ritta had better get it right next time. Both Tyson and the black warrior had better be dead within twenty-four hours, or Ritta would find he was re-decorating his bedroom ceiling with bits of his small intestine.
A more accurate fireball swept suddenly across the room, and the kalaya in the golden birdcage exploded in a mass of feathers.
Nekros was feeling really pissed off.
At a quarter to midnight Ronan was striding through the darkened streets of Welbug with a drunken Tarl staggering along beside him. Every now and then he paused, ostensibly to stare into a shop window, but in reality to check that he was not being followed. Not that anyone would have had to keep them in sight to follow them, for Tarl kept bursting into fragments of song and could have been heard streets away.
"Take me back to Goblin City," he bellowed, well off-key. "Where the girls are really sh....” He was cut off as Ronan clasped a hand over his mouth, before pausing to look in another shop window. "Mmmmmph", he said, and Ronan relented and removed his hand.
"Just keep quiet. OK?"
"Alright, alright! So you don't like good music!" Tarl gazed blearily through the window. It was full of the dirty black garments beloved of fashion-conscious female orcs. Over the window was the shop name: Eat 'em. "You thinking of buying yourself a new dress?" he giggled. Ronan glared at him.
"I'm making sure no-one's after us," he snarled. "I've had enough of people trying to sneak up on me. I don't trust this Tyson. Trust no man, my Dad warned me. Remember?"
"Oh, come on! If Tyson is a man, then my name's Beppo the Wonder Sheep!" Tarl paused, and then added, "You know, if she is a man, I wouldn't mind a husband like her..."
Satisfied that they weren't being followed, Ronan dragged Tarl swiftly round the corner. "He could be right," he thought. "In vino veritas. She's not a man, so maybe I can trust her. Ah well, we'll soon find out..."
The door of the Dragon's Claw opened before they could knock, and Ronan and Tarl slipped quietly inside. Behind them, Posner barred the door before motioning them through into the lounge. All the candles of the magnificent chandelier had been snuffed out and the room was lit only by a couple of wall-torches. It was empty, save for Tyson, who was sitting at a table near the marble statue with a tankard of beer in front of her. As Posner slipped out through the door at the far end by the bar she rose to greet them.
"Thanks for coming," she said, and extended her hand to Ronan. They shook warrior-fashion, each gripping the other's wrist, then she turned to Tarl. "Help yourself," she continued, indicating the bar. "On the house. Whatever you want, and as much as you want."
Tarl stared at her in disbelief. "
I think I love you, " he said, making his way unsteadily to the bar. "This calls for a cocktail!"
Tarl had a thing about cocktails that probably dated back to his childhood. His old Mum had loved them too. He could remember her mixing one of her specials every night. Equal measures of gin, gin, and gin, in a tall glass, and topped up with gin. Drain quickly, then beat the shit out of your little boy. Still, at least it had taught him how to roll with a punch. He winced at the memory, and grabbed a shaker and a bottle of brandy.
Tyson watched him with a tired smile, and then turned back to Ronan. "Right," she said, "Take the weight off your brains." Ronan sat down opposite her and eyed her with obvious suspicion as she took a mouthful of beer. "We both have problems," she went on. "I have someone who is trying to take over the city. You have someone who is trying to kill you. They happen to be one and the same person."
"Who?" asked Ronan.
"A guy called Nekros..."
Tyson leapt backwards from her seat and stood there, sword at the ready, as marble fragments showered round her. But Ronan remained in his seat, staring stupidly at the shattered remnants of the table, the spilt beer, and at his clenched fist, which had done so much damage.
"Er... sorry!" he muttered. "I'm a bit, er, well, I get a bit worked up when I hear that name..."
Hesitantly, Ronan began to relate the story of his first meeting with Nekros, and as he did so Tyson watched him with a new respect. This appeared to be someone she could work with, all right. A dedicated warrior who was on the side of right, and who could smash a heavy marble table to pieces with one angry blow of his fist at the mention of a name he happened to dislike. He would make a great ally - and boy, could she do with an ally right now!
She listened as Ronan talked on, and her eyes opened wider as he told her of his father's apparition. "That's the first hint of hope that we've had in ages," she said. "And they've screwed up badly over you. But I don't think you've any idea what you're taking on. Nekros has lieutenants in all the cities of the East, and they've been hard at work. Minas Welvair and Far Tibreth are crumbling from within, Setel and Goblin City have already fallen, yet people don't realise what's happening...
"These are guys who move with the times, you see. They're smart. These days, if you want to take over a city, you don't roll up at the head of an army of and lay siege to the place. I mean, what's the use of that? You end up in control of a burnt-out shell with half the people dead and plague and famine ravaging the rest. That puts the punters off, and it's tourism that brings in the tablons in a place like Welbug.
"But these guys are clever. For four years, they've been up to all the tricks. Destabilisation... covert operations... terrorism... the odd assassination... and infiltration. Especially infiltration. They've got a powerful clique on the town city council, led by Ritta. He's a fat old toad, as sly as they come. But he was no match for my father."
Tyson paused, visibly holding back tears, and Ronan suddenly realised that despite her light-hearted facade, she was under great strain. She took a shaky breath and continued.
"My father was the town Champion too, and the best warrior the East had ever seen. The people loved him. He carried them with him no matter what clever stroke Ritta tried to pull. Ritta was losing out, so he had my father killed. It was a knife in the back as he came home from a council meeting one dark night. They must have thought that with him gone the city would fall, leaderless, for he had no son to follow him. But they reckoned without me. Since I was a child he trained me, and trained me well. I was a match for the best that Ritta could send against me and the people of Welbug trusted me. Yet each year we lose more ground, and they creep nearer to their goal. They've got their people in positions of power all over the city now and they're changing it, slowly but surely. They've even got control of the city council.
"Some months ago they passed a by-law granting orcs equal rights. Then last week they introduced an amendment to extend it to the Undead - zombies, wraiths, ghosts, werewolves. I thought we had a majority, but old Parbeard voted with them. Wouldn't look me in the eyes afterwards. They had some sort of hold over him, probably blackmail.
"You saw the result tonight. Ordinary, decent folk forced to rub shoulders with trash like those zombies. But the decent folk have started to leave. Those that remain are relying on me, but I won't be able to hold out more than a few days. Ritta is like a huge fat spider. His webs are everywhere..."
For a moment she paused, staring into space. A silence fell on the room, broken only by gentle hiccups coming from behind the bar. Then she sighed, and continued.
"He can't buy me, or frighten me out. And he's learned he can't discredit me. So he'll have me killed, as he did my father. I can feel them closing in...."
"Then they must be stopped," said Ronan. He had listened to all this impassively, but inside, his emotions were churning. To think that his enemy was behind such an audacious plan! And standing in his way was this female warrior, small and alone, but dangerous and determined... and brave... and beautiful.... Ronan stared at her with something akin to awe. She smiled at him, and suddenly his heart started doing cartwheels round his chest.
"Two days ago," she said, "I heard a rumour that Nekros fears no man in all the world... except for a warrior called Ronan. And then, the word on the street was that you were on your way here. But you turned up on my very doorstep! Could be a trap, I thought, and so when you left here, I followed you and found you were being followed by someone else. Karth the Assassin! They must fear you greatly, to send him after you!"
She was gazing at him with outright admiration now, and Ronan felt his chest swelling with pride, almost as though someone was inflating him with a pump. He tried to look modest, failed abysmally, and ended up simpering horribly.
"Tell me where to find this Ritta," he said. Tyson smiled tiredly, and shook her head.
"That won't work," she answered. "You'd just walk into another ambush. You've no idea how many fighting men he has in this town. And anyway, he's just a puppet."
"Then I have to kill Nekros. But how do I find him?"
"I don't know," she sighed dejectedly. "No-one knows his movements. Not even Ritta. But he's no ordinary warrior. He'd just swat you like a fly. Apparently the guy deals in magic, and you can't have a fair fight with someone who can turn you into a woodlouse and then step on you!"
"But there's got to be a way of stopping him!"
Tyson gave him a long, appraising look. There may be," she said, "although it could be too late for me. But there's a guy who wants to see you. A guy who seems to think that you can stop Nekros. The guy who passed the word to me that you were coming. The main problem is, I don't know if he can be trusted. I've never even met him, and I don't know anyone who has."
"Who is he?" asked Ronan.
"He's a wizard called Anthrax."
Tarl had been having a seriously good time behind the bar. He had mixed himself an Elf's Pecker, a cocktail he normally couldn't afford (as it contained both Behan Champagne and Cydorian Brandy). Then he'd had another. And another. He'd done a bit of singing, while conducting himself with the cocktail. Then he'd stopped, when half of it had slopped out all over his shoes. And then he had begun to wonder what the others were doing, and whether they'd decided anything important, like what to drink, or which club to go on to, and so he'd focused his attention on them, and heard all this defeatist crap about Nekros and Ritta.
Indignantly, Tarl went to step out from behind the bar on to the floor, but missed it by quite a long way. "Lishen," he said, and then spent a while hauling himself upright. "It'sh time to shtand up and be counted," he continued, and immediately fell over again. Realising that he was going to have a bit of trouble doing two tricky things at once, such as standing upright and talking, he opted for lying on the floor while speaking. He felt he could just about manage that without having to hold on.
"I wash... was... talking to a guy in the Gizzard earlier," he said. "Reckoned he was a friend of yours, Tyson. Said
his name was Oupase..." Ronan and Tyson listened with tolerant smiles as Tarl talked on, but after a while the smiles slipped away, to be replaced by frowns. Frowns of concentration. Because alcohol did strange things to Tarl. It gave him ideas. And some of those ideas were little belters...
TRAP
"Attack is the best form of defence, and surprise is the best form of attack."
ARAGORN OF SUNWOOD, HUMAN GENERAL
"Kick them in the orbs, and run for it. Better still, get someone else to kick them in the orbs, while you pinch their drink..."
TARL OF WELBUG, GENERALLY HUMAN
In the room at the top of the tower, Ritta was sitting in front of the crystal ball, putting off the moment when he would have to report his failure. He'd been seriously contemplating sending all his men down to the Dragon's Claw in a last-ditch attempt to take out Tyson, but he didn't quite dare. His spies had reported that she had met with the black-skinned warrior last night, and a few days ago Nekros had given him one of those predictions of his.
"Together," he'd said, "they will destroy you!" Ritta wasn't sure what the two of them could do against all his men, but Nekros had an annoying habit of always being right. The trouble was, Nekros had also promised to destroy him if he made another cock-up. And when Nekros destroyed you, it was never in any pleasant, sorry-about-this-old-chap kind of a way. It tended to be a nasty, painful, blood-and-guts-all-over-the-walls sort of a destruction. Ritta's hand hovered nervously over the number buttons of the crystal, then fell back into his lap. It was no good, he'd...
"Master! Master!" An out-of-breath underling burst through the door and fell to the floor in a grovelling heap. "The black warrior has left!"