by Bibby, James
"What?" yelled Ritta, leaping to his feet. The underling grovelled some more, looking as though he was trying to worm his way between the floorboards.
"It's true, master!" he whined. "He rode out from the East Gate mere minutes ago and took the Minas Tryk road!"
"What of his little piss-head friend? And Tyson? What of her?"
"His friend is in the Dragon's Gizzard, drinking enough for two! And Grimbal says Tyson hides within the Claw, and fears to show her face."
Ritta paced furiously up and down, thinking hard. Another chance! He must seize it quickly! He glanced at the crystal ball. Use it to follow Ronan? No, the klatting thing kept breaking down. Men were more reliable. In a fever of excitement he began shouting orders at the terrified underling.
"I want five good men to follow him! No, make it ten! They are to keep their distance for today, but they must make sure he does not double back! And get someone next to the little piss-head. Someone with money to buy him drinks and loosen his tongue. Then put men to watch the Claw, front and back! I must know of anyone who enters! And send word to Dagman and the other eight of the Council. They are to meet me here at noon!"
The underling bowed deeply, which isn't easy when you're prostrate on the floor, then fled. Ritta crossed to the single tall window, and looked out over the glittering roofs of the city.
"This time I've got you!" he muttered, and the thought of Tyson's bleeding body slumped at his feet gave him a soft shimmering of excitement across his stomach. "You pathetic woman! You have no idea just how alone you are!"
In the Dragon's Gizzard, Tarl was enjoying himself. The bloke next to him kept insisting on buying him drinks and seemed to have a bottomless purse. Tarl hadn't bought a drink for hours. He drained his tankard, put it on the bar, and picked up the full one that had just been placed there.
"Friend?" he said. "He's no friend of mine! Bloody warriors! They can drop you right in it, if you're not careful! He nearly got me killed the other day, by this band of orcs! I'm glad he's buggered off to Minas Tryk! What? Coming back? In a day or two, he said. Tyson? Nah, they didn't get on. Not at all. Well, he couldn't take being beaten by a woman, could he? Hm? Oh, same again, thanks. Very kind of you..."
Ronan reined in his horse and looked back along the road behind him. In the distance, the towers of Welbug sparkled in the early afternoon sunshine. A little closer, a small cloud of dust marked the presence of pursuing horsemen.
He moved on. Ahead, the road dipped down to the right passing briefly through some woodland along the edge of the Great River. As soon as he had entered the cover of the trees Ronan spurred on his horse, emerging on the far side of the wood to find that the road ran past a small stone jetty stretching out into the river. It was hidden from the sight of anyone on the road behind. A boat was moored here and a familiar figure was waiting on the jetty.
Ronan rode up to him and dismounted. "Hey, Posner!" he said. "Everything OK?"
"Indeed, sir," said Posner. "Are they following you?"
"Yeah, but they're keeping their distance," Ronan answered. He took off his cloak and handed it to Posner, who wrapped it about himself, and then swung up into the saddle. "You sure you'll be OK?" Ronan asked him.
"No problem, sir. Tyson has many friends in Minas Tryk. I will be safe there."
"Ride fast," Ronan told him. "And don't worry about Tyson. I'll look after her."
Posner smiled pityingly at the warrior. "Don't you worry about yourself, sir," he replied. "She'll look after you."
And with that he was gone, riding off up the road to Minas Tryk like the wind. Ronan smiled uncertainly. He wasn't used to being thought of as second-best to a woman. He turned to the boat, whose owner was sitting waiting, oars poised. He was short but muscular, and had a face like a rusty mantrap. He grinned at Ronan as he stepped into the boat. Ronan grinned back.
"You're Oupase?" he asked. The ferryman nodded. "OK, then," said Ronan. "Let's get this boat hidden." Oupase bent his back and pulled on the oars and the boat edged out into the slow-flowing river, drifted along near the bank, and disappeared into the cover of some overhanging bushes.
Further back along the road to Welbug, the Captain in charge of Ronan's pursuing force was relieved to see the cloak-wrapped figure on the mighty horse come galloping out of the woods as though the Five Great Demons were after it. He'd been slightly worried when it had been hidden from view by the trees.
"Come on," he yelled to his men. "Keep that hobbit-fondler in sight!"
They spurred after him into the woods. Behind them, the ferryboat broke unseen from the cover of some bushes and pulled rapidly down-river towards Welbug.
Ritta couldn't believe his luck. The black-skinned warrior had definitely gone - a rider had just come with the news that the Captain and his men still had him in sight, halfway to Minas Tryk. And Tyson had been holed up in the Claw all day. The word from Grimbal was that the only callers for hours had been an early-evening wine delivery, which had been shortly followed by the little piss-head. No surprise there. Since late afternoon Ritta's men had been in operation at either end of Rue Battue, warning off all potential customers except for those of his own choice.
Now it was late evening. Ritta strolled up to the door of the Dragon's Claw, pausing to make sure his guards had closed in to prevent any rescue attempt that might be staged. He was feeling light-headed with anticipation. It was great to be in control again! At last he was about to be rid of Tyson. She would expect to be safe in her own establishment. Little did she know that he had suborned not only Grimbal but also her barman, and that apart from the little piss-head every single customer in the place was one of his own men!
He pushed open the door and entered. Inside Grimbal was at his post. Ritta smiled at him and glanced quickly around the room. Tyson was leaning at the bar, staring moodily into the bottom of a mug of beer. Her barman was polishing a glass and talking to Attali, one of the girls. The other girls were dancing attendance on nine male customers, all of whom were Ritta's men. The only other customer was the small piss-head, who was seated at a table near the marble statue of the warrior. He had twelve empty glasses in front of him, and was sipping a cocktail from a thirteenth and talking lovingly to a little brown donkey. The donkey had flowers in its mane.
Ritta grimaced. He had some fairly peculiar sexual tastes of his own but this was a bit much, even for his strong stomach. Momentarily, the donkey met his gaze and Ritta felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine. Although donkeys don't have the necessary equipment to go round pulling the legs off spiders, he got the impression that, could it have done so, this one would have adopted the practice with glee.
He shuddered and nodded to Grimbal, who barred the door. At this signal each of his men whispered something to the girl or girls he was talking to. Almost as one, the girls turned and headed for the door that led to the upstairs areas. They all looked a little surprised to find themselves part of a mass migration and some of them paused, but Ritta's men threw back their cloaks to reveal swords underneath. Frightened, the girls looked across to Tyson, but she just nodded wearily and they shuffled through the door and disappeared. The girl behind the bar went to follow them, but the barman grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to him, leering unpleasantly. One of Ritta's men locked the door, and they formed a threatening semi-circle around the female warrior as she stood by the bar.
Smiling, Ritta sauntered past the donkey, which was being drunkenly serenaded by the little piss-head, and pushed through his men until he stood in front of her. Not too close, though. She had her hand on her sword and he knew how dangerous she was. She stared at him with eyes like green flint and he felt a momentary frisson of fear. Quickly, he checked the men beside him. Good! Two of them had small arbalests trained on her, and the other seven had drawn swords. Even she would not dare to try anything.
Tyson leant back on the bar and smiled. "OK, dragon-breath," she drawled, "What's all this in aid of?"
"My dear Tyson! I'm afraid it's
that little matter of the unfortunate demise of a guest in our city. Killed by your own fair hand!"
"If you mean that foul zombie..."
"Foul or no, he has equal status accorded him by the Rights of the Recently Demised Act. And you have been tried and found guilty of murder. I therefore sentence you to..."
"You cannot sentence me! You have no right!"
"But my dear Tyson!" Ritta couldn't keep the enjoyment out of his voice. "As a full Council member you can be tried by a decade of the Council and sentenced by the Chairman. Me."
She threw out her hand and stabbed an accusing finger at two of his men. "Gawulf and Sedgeling are but deputies!"
"Ah. I'm afraid not. Both have been automatically elevated to full council status since the unfortunate deaths of their superiors, an hour ago."
Suddenly it was very quiet in the room. Even the little piss-head had shut up. All the men were staring at Tyson hungrily. The barman ran his tongue over suddenly-dry lips, and then dragged the unwilling Attali hard against himself. As he slowly and lovingly drew his sword, Ritta ran his eyes over Tyson. Grak's blood! Under all that warrior gear she really had rather a good body. Maybe he should have her drugged... No, she was too dangerous. She would have to die. Ritta suddenly realised that the thought of killing her was giving him a warm glow in his loins, and that he was breathing heavily. Hm! This might be almost as much fun...
"And so," he continued, "In my capacity as Chairman of the Council of Welbug, I sentence you. To death!"
As he took a step forward the girl behind the bar screamed. Ritta glanced at her in annoyance, and then stared. The barman was staggering backwards with a small and rather feminine dagger sticking out of his stomach. Klat! The bitch had stabbed him! Ritta met her gaze and was stunned to see the triumph in her eyes. And then suddenly, he was frozen in place by a screeching braying sound that seemed to burst into the room from some foul nether-world, and all hell was let loose beside him. He turned and backed towards the bar, his mouth sagging open in disbelief.
To one side, three of his men lay on the floor with throats sliced open. Beside them stood the little piss-head, who was humming to himself as he emptied their purses, and Grimbal, who was wiping a jagged bloodstained knife on a rag. To the other side a man was sprawled on the floor with his head nearly severed, blood pumping in an ever-weakening fountain from his neck. His terrified neighbour was backing away, eyes fixed in horror on the donkey, which was slowly stalking him, its muzzle soaked with gore. And in the centre, three more men lay at the feet of the marble statue, which seemed somehow to have come to life. As Ritta watched in horror it scornfully parried the desperate lunges of his two remaining followers, before skewering one neatly with the spear and casually lopping off the head of the other. Ritta gazed in awe as it raised one hand and pulled off its helm to reveal the face of - the black-skinned warrior!
At that moment, he realised just how comprehensively he'd been stuffed. Grunting with rage and fear, he turned and slashed desperately with his sword at Tyson. She blocked his blows easily and then suddenly flicked a wrist, and his sword went flying over the bar. He just had enough time to hear her whisper "Welcome to hell, baby!" before there was an agonizing pain in his chest, and he looked down to see her sword buried up to the hilt between his ribs.
And that was the last thing he ever saw.
Tarl sat in a corner, watching the awe-struck townsmen as they dragged out the bodies. Apparently word of Ritta's plan had leaked out, and an irate mob had arrived in Rue Battue and dealt summarily with his outside guards before pounding at the door and demanding to know if Tyson was all right. Ronan had been upstairs washing off the marble-coloured make-up, and the sight of just her and Tarl quietly sipping drinks with ten slaughtered councillors at their feet had stunned the mob to silence. Now word of what their champion had achieved was racing around from tavern to tavern. Her reputation and stature would be even more enhanced.
But that didn't concern Tarl. What did concern him was his own behaviour. For the past twenty-four hours, he'd been acting like some lame-brained hero out of one of the wilder Chronicles. Getting involved in fights against the odds, spreading rumours in pubs, thinking up plans... he'd nearly ruptured himself helping Ronan drag that klatting great statue upstairs! Admittedly, he had been pissed most of the time, but still! He could have been killed! He'd had loads of chances to slide quietly off, but he hadn't taken them. Tarl sighed. If this was what friendship did to you, the sooner he got out the better.
Tyson shut and barred the main door behind the last of the adulatory townsmen, and crossed over to Tarl. He looked up at her.
"I need help," he said.
"You're telling me!"
"I'm serious. Tomorrow, when he leaves Welbug... he's expecting me to go with him, isn't he?"
Tyson nodded. Tarl winced. "It wouldn't work!" he continued. "I mean, he's on a quest! Danger, bloodshed, killing and maiming, hardship... It's all right for you two, you're trained warriors. It's your job. But on my papers, next to profession, it says Full-time Coward. I mean, I'm supposed to be on holiday! All I want is a few laughs, a few beers, the odd girl - and believe me, I've known some really odd girls - and the occasional illicit substance. But if I'm still here in the morning, and he looks at me with those noble sodding eyes of his, and calls me his friend... well, that's it. Hero time. I'll be stuck with it." He paused, and took a deep breath. "I've got to leave. Tonight."
"So what do you want from me?"
"Just... just don't tell him," Tarl said, wretchedly, "and don't try to stop me."
"OK," said Tyson, smiling mirthlessly. "Go tonight. But if you're still here in the morning and he wants you, then you're going with him."
"No tricks, now!"
"If you stay, you stay of your own choice!", she said, looking at him out of huge, guileless green eyes.
"She's up to something!", he thought, and finished his drink.
Upstairs in the bathroom Ronan was also worried. Not about Welbug, or about his quest. Things had gone well today. It had been a tight fit in that wine-barrel, but he'd managed OK, and they'd smuggled him back into the Claw under the very noses of Ritta's lookouts. Then he'd had to be made up as the naked statue. Again, no problem. Standing stock-still for hours was basic warrior training, although he'd never before had to do it stark naked in a room-full of beautiful and provocative women. (Bits of him had been quite insistent about moving when Attali had sat in front of him, and he'd had to concentrate very hard on cold showers.)
Things would probably go well tomorrow, too. Tyson was going to smuggle him out of Welbug, to put Nekros's spies off the trail, and he felt sure that Anthrax the Wizard would be able to help him. No, the problem was tonight.
Firstly, he had a feeling that Tarl was planning to slip off quietly. He'd conceived an odd affection for the little guy and an even odder respect. He had an instinct for survival, could scent danger a mile off, came up with pretty mean plans, and knew how to have a seriously good time. Ronan didn't want to drag him off against his will, but he had been a great companion, and Ronan would miss him.
Secondly, Tyson had promised him and Tarl that they would spend the night with the women of their dreams as a gesture of thanks. A few hours previously, the idea of spending the night with Attali would have set him trembling with lust, but now, for some reason, he kept seeing Tyson's face. And her hair. And her hands. And her legs. He had spent a lot of time watching her while he posed as the statue, and he had felt nearly sick with hatred when Ritta had threatened her. Now, instead of his usual guilt he was feeling a quiet satisfaction. He had seen the look on their faces. If they had hurt just one hair on her head...
Oh Klat! He shook his head and stared at himself in the mirror. "Come on, you big hero," he thought. "All you have to do is go downstairs and ask her to... ask her if she'll..." He stopped. His reflection had gone an unhealthy grey-brown colour. His hand began to shake, and his legs felt as though they were going to give way. At the thought of con
fessing his feelings to Tyson his heart started trying to do back-flips out through his mouth.
Ronan the Warrior, Vanquisher of Evil, Slayer of Thousands, was hopelessly in love.
Tarl walked quietly along the corridor towards his room. He knew that collecting his bag and getting out was a perfectly sensible thing to do, so why the hell did it make him feel like some nasty little insect scuttling under a stone? Maybe this was that guilt thing that people kept on about.
He'd nearly reached his room when a door opened and Ronan came out of the bathroom. He stopped, looking embarrassed, and Tarl quickly pasted a big cheesy grin onto his face.
"Hi!" he said. "Nice and clean again?"
"Yeah," answered Ronan. There was a silence. The conversation was tearing along like a horse with no legs going uphill. Ronan gave it a shove. "So how's Puss?"
"Great! When I left him, he was standing in the kitchen with eyes like plates and his tongue hanging out. He's never seen a Steak Diane before, and Tyson's chef is cooking him ten of the things!" Tarl paused. He could feel his grin coming off in chunks. He rushed on. "Well, can't stop. Got the girl of my dreams waiting in my room!"
"Yeah, me too!" Ronan didn't sound convincing.
"Good luck, Big Fella!" said Tarl, slapping Ronan on the shoulder. "I'll see you around!" He turned away and walked up the passage to his room, wishing that the carpet on the floor were as deep-pile as the one downstairs. He could have hidden in that one.
Ronan watched him go, and then turned to open the door to his room. Better get this over with. Maybe when he saw Attali lying there in bed, when he took her in his arms, maybe he could forget Tyson. Just for a few minutes. Maybe. He took a deep, hopeless breath, and marched in to meet his fate.
Tarl was in a hurry, stuffing his belongings into his back-pack as quickly as possible. He'd never had to turn a woman down before, especially one who looked like Serena, and so he hadn't dared to look at her, in case his resolve weakened. He was conscious of her there on the waterbed, but kept his eyes firmly on what he was doing.