Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  "It's nothing personal," he gabbled. "But I've got this life I'd like to lead, and if I hang around here tonight, I might not have it much longer." He strapped the pack closed and swung it on to his back. "So thanks, but... no thanks!"

  Confident now that he had the resolve to leave, he looked at her for the first time since he had entered, and saw - the woman of his dreams!

  "Oh, no!" he said, sadly.

  It was Serena. She was kneeling on the waterbed on all fours, with black rubber boots on both her legs and her arms. Over her back was draped an entire sheepskin, and on her head she wore a pair of curled sheep's-horns. She wriggled her rump and the little woolly tail swished back and forth. Then she looked at him with twinkling eyes.

  "Baaaa!" she said.

  Tarl felt as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. His backpack fell to the floor.

  "Oh, yes!" he said, moving towards the bed as though drawn by a magnet. "Oh, baby! Yes!"

  Tarl was sunk, and he knew it.

  ANTHRAX

  Travellers heading west from Welbug are advised to avoid the Main Western Road, as it is believed that the Witch of Southfork is operating in this area, and many travellers have already been cursed or bewitched. Previous reports that the root of the Mandrake acts as a charm against her spells are now known to be false, and travellers are advised to try an alternative root...

  WELBUG WEEKLY - TRAVEL NEWS

  Tarl drifted slowly up from the depths of sleep. He was being rocked by the gentle undulations of the waterbed and could feel Serena's hot breath on his forehead. He sighed with contentment reaching one hand out to stroke her cheek.

  Funny... it felt a little rough. And come to think of it, the waterbed was a bit on the hard side, and the pillow was lumpy. And he was freezing cold. He dragged one eye open, then the other, and stared up in horror. Instead of Serena's beautiful face, there was a foul upside-down vision with fang teeth, filthy skin, and staring yellow eyes. It grinned at him and a miasma of foul breath swept by. Tarl opened his mouth to yell, and a huge and powerful hand was immediately clamped over it before he could make a sound.

  "Sh!" said Ronan from behind him, and then removed his hand. Tarl hauled himself upright and stared round. He had been lying flat out in the bottom of a boat, with his head on his backpack. Behind him sat Ronan and Puss, and in front of him was the owner of the foul face - the ferryman, Oupase, who was rowing them quietly along with cloth-wrapped oars. They were moving quickly down-river, with a cold mist eddying round them and hiding the shore from view. On the whole, thought Tarl, he'd really rather have woken up next to Serena.

  "What the hell's going on?" he hissed.

  Ronan looked puzzled. "Why are you whispering?" he asked.

  Tarl gestured to the oars. "We're slipping quietly out of Welbug in a boat with specially muffled oars, so I assumed..."

  "They're not specially muffled," growled Oupase. "I always have them like this. You'd be surprised how many hangovers I have to ferry around. They appreciate the quiet."

  Anyway," said Ronan, "We're miles away from Welbug now. We started before dawn."

  "You could have woken me," said Tarl, grumpily.

  The warrior seemed embarrassed. "Well, you looked as though you needed the sleep, and Tyson said if you were still in your room it meant you definitely wanted to come, and I thought..."

  "You thought I might have changed my mind." Tarl peered longingly back through the mist, but all sight and sound of the city had vanished behind them. He sighed. "Shame. I'd have liked to say good-bye to Serena."

  "She sent you a message," said Ronan, smiling.

  "Oh?" said Tarl, nonchalantly.

  "Yeah. She said to say baa."

  Tarl could feel himself blushing. It was a pretty unaccustomed sensation. "So, er, have a good night with Attali?" he asked, by way of distraction.

  "No".

  Tarl looked up, surprised. The big warrior was looking embarrassed again.

  "No? Why not?"

  "Because it wasn't Attali."

  "Who was it?"

  "Tyson."

  "You're joking!" Tarl studied his friend. He was staring into space with a particularly fierce expression on his face, but with a smile hovering around his lips. He looked like a deadly man-eating tiger thinking about his man-eating tigress.

  "Grak's blood!" thought Tarl. "He's in love! And he's got it bad. Mind you, I shouldn't be surprised. If ever a couple were made for each other! I bet they had a big row about who went on top..."

  Ronan grimaced horribly. "I never realised," he said, "that a woman could be so... so..."

  "Beautiful?" suggested Tarl. "Cuddly? Sexy?"

  "Deadly," said Ronan. "So lethal, so quick, so..."

  "So anyway," interrupted Tarl. "What happened to Attali?"

  "I don't know. I expected her to be in the bedroom, but it was Tyson who was waiting for me. She said if I went anywhere near Attali again, she'd slit my throat. She meant it, too!"

  Tarl shivered inwardly. He wasn't keen on the idea of going to bed with lethal females. It reminded him of the revolting habits of some of the more unpleasant spiders that he'd read about, such as the Baq D'Orian Widowmaker, or the Black Teaser. Quickly, he shunted the conversation towards more prurient matters.

  "So," he leered, "you screwed Tyson, eh? No wonder you look shagged out!".

  Suddenly Tarl found himself dangling in mid-air with a large black fist clamped tightly about his throat. Ronan stared at him for a moment as though he'd just spat in his wine, but then looked a little shame-faced and put him down again.

  "The reason that I didn't get a lot of sleep," he said as Tarl gasped in air, "was because it was too noisy. It sounded as though there was a flock of sheep going berserk in the next room."

  For the second time in a minute, Tarl could feel himself going bright red. He turned away from Ronan and watched Oupase, who was dipping the cloth-wrapped oars into the water, and pulling powerfully.

  "So we've left the girls behind," he said. "And the city. And the pubs. And the food, and the wine, and the beer, and the gambling, and the shows, and the comfort, and the safety, and the fun, and the good times...."

  His voice died away. There was a short silence that was at last broken by Ronan.

  "I'm so glad you came along," he said sourly, and then turned and stared sadly back towards Welbug as the boat swept on down-river through the mist.

  Oupase held the ferry steady against the bank as the others disembarked. "Head north, towards the Forest of Dreams." he advised. "They say the wizard's house is just a few miles past the Trading Post."

  Tarl looked up, worriedly. "They say?", he repeated. "Don't you know anyone who's actually been there?"

  Oupase shook his head. "We have a saying in Welbug. Never meddle in the affairs of wizards. You can't trust the bastards an inch!" And with that he pushed his boat off from the jetty, and began to row powerfully back upstream.

  "Great," said Tarl, as Ronan strode past him. "Just what I like. A pre-breakfast yomp to a house of uncertain location, where some nut in a pointy hat and a long white beard is waiting to turn us into frogs."

  Puss looked at him scornfully. "You could have it worse," it thought. "You could have two sodding great back-packs strapped on top of you!" And with a disdainful snort, it stalked off along the track after Ronan.

  Back in Welbug, Tyson was having a busy morning. Although she was every bit as smitten by Ronan as he was by her, she wasn't the type to droop languidly around the house, pining for her true love. When she had Things To Do, she Did them. And that morning, she had a city to secure.

  Within an hour of seeing Ronan safely away in the ferry she was at the head of a detachment of the city Guard, marching through the streets past cheering crowds on her way to arrest Ritta's confederates. But there didn't seem to be anyone left to arrest. The Sergeant of the Gate-guard told her that there had been a mass exodus at first light, with Southrons, Easterlings, orcs, and other unpleasant folk streaming
through the gates and heading north. A heavily armed group of about twenty of Ritta's best men had headed off along the West Road, galloping furiously.

  "Ha!", thought Tyson. "I know who they're after. Well tough, they'll never find him!"

  By the time she got to Ritta's house up in the merchant's quarter, half the city seemed to have joined them. There were stallholders, builders, off-duty guards, all cheering and shouting and waving whatever weapons they could find. She paused on the steps leading up to the dead councilman's front door and gave them a few well-chosen words, ending with the suggestion that they should take the rest of the day off and celebrate with a few drinks. The crowd erupted and she turned away with a smile. Her father had taught her a thing or two about public relations.

  Ritta's house was deserted but for a few slaves, who had obviously feared and loathed the man and were overjoyed to be released. She searched the place thoroughly, but there was nothing of any use to be found. Someone had burned a mass of documents and parchments on the fire in the main hall before leaving. Tyson sifted carefully through the ashes but found nothing of value.

  "Shame," she thought as she climbed the stairs that led to the room at the top of the tower. "If we'd moved as soon as Ritta was dead, we might have found a lot of useful stuff." But then she smiled to herself. What the hell! She'd had a great night with Ronan and she wouldn't have swapped that. Anyway, the guy was dead, they'd kicked Nekros's butt for him, and Welbug was safe.

  She pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and found herself in a small square room. To one side, a curtain half hid a tall window that led onto a little balcony overlooking the city. In the centre of the room was a table, on which rested a smallish crystal ball.

  She sat at the table and stared at the crystal, and was just wondering whether it could tell her anything when suddenly it began to glow with an eerie red light. As she watched, a dark and angry face appeared in its depths.

  "Ritta!"

  The voice that echoed eerily from the crystal was enough to send shivers down a dragon's spine, but Tyson was in no mood to be cowed. She realised that this must be Nekros, and that he hadn't yet heard the news. Excellent! Maybe she could learn something. She leaned forward.

  "Unfortunately Ritta can't be here just now," she purred. "He's a little cut up about it."

  There was no change in the expression on Nekros's face, but all of a sudden she was aware of a venomous hatred drifting out from the crystal and wrapping itself around her like the net of a retiarius.

  "Ah! You must be Tyson. How nice to talk to you at last!" All of a sudden his voice was dripping with honey... but the sort of honey that would be made by deadly killer bees in a very bad mood. "I warned the stupid man that you and your warrior friend would cause trouble for him."

  "Not just for him. You can forget about Welbug. Start worrying about saving your own skin."

  Nekros laughed. It was the most unpleasant sound that Tyson had ever heard.

  "Do you really think that the two of you can defeat me and the power that backs me? A woman, and a beardless youth fresh from warrior school? Look! I have a special fate in store for you."

  The view in the crystal expanded, and Tyson could see that Nekros was holding a sword more than six feet long, jet black and with a jagged edge. He began to sharpen it with a whetstone and the grating screech of metal set her teeth on edge. She shivered, but affected disdain.

  "Typical. You men and your swords. So impressed with size. Well, I've always found it's true what they say. Big sword, tiny dick."

  The metallic screeching stopped, and Nekros threw her a look of such malevolence that she found she was gripping the table edge white-knuckled.

  "You cease to amuse me," he growled. "I think that the sooner I dispose of your large friend, the better."

  "Easier said than done!" said Tyson, confidently. She was getting the impression that things were swinging her way. She felt as though she was marching along life's highway with a song in her heart. At this point, fate slipped out behind her from a dark alley with a half-brick in its hand.

  "It shouldn't be too hard," laughed Nekros. "He's on his way to see Anthrax, isn't he?"

  Try as she might, Tyson couldn't keep the look of horror off her face and Nekros laughed delightedly.

  "My dear girl," he grinned, "it was I who ordered Anthrax to invite him. Quite a lot of my men are riding that way at this very moment. But keep that crystal. When they bring him here, I'll let you have a last word with him. Or what's left of him."

  Tyson stared at Nekros, horrified. She felt as though a large and very angry horse wearing lead shoes had just kicked her in the stomach. At the sight of her face, he laughed out loud with glee.

  "What, no snappy comeback?" he asked. "Never mind. We can't all be at our best in the mornings. I'll give him your love, shall I?"

  His visage vanished abruptly and the red glow faded, leaving the room as still and quiet as a morgue. And then Tyson was up and dashing down the stairs, yelling for someone to fetch her horse.

  Welbug would just have to look after itself for a while. She had a man to save.

  After the brilliant afternoon sunshine, the inside of the Trading Post was pleasantly cool. It was also very dark, and it took a while for Ronan's eyes to adjust. When they did so, he could see that they were in a large room that brought exacting new parameters to the word "cluttered". Wherever you looked, there were things piled on other things, next to things, under things, inside things, and with more things piled on top for good measure. Teetering mounds of just about everything under the sun climbed up the walls, covered the windows, and threatened to overwhelm the counter.

  Behind this counter the owner of the Trading Post could just be seen. He was very tall and remarkably thin, and gave the impression that, long ago, an absent-minded torturer had strapped him to an automatic rack and then forgotten about him for two weeks. He looked as though if he fell asleep standing up, his body would just fold up like a concertina. His eyes gleamed happily behind circular eye-glasses as he peered excitedly at his potential customers over the top of, amongst other things, several pairs of hob-nailed troll boots, some swords, a stuffed wiggat, a complete collection of the works of Maxon the Small, an interesting sculpture made entirely from horse-shoes, a box of tinned apples in cider, an alaxl head mounted on a shield, and an old wheelbarrow with no wheel.

  "Hi there!" he said. "Hey! Nice backpacks! I'll give you thirty bronze tablons apiece for them!"

  Ronan shook his head.

  "Thirty-five, then. No? Well, how about that donkey? I'll give you two silver tablons for him."

  Again, Ronan shook his head. "He's not for sale. Look, could you..."

  "Well, two and a half then..." The trader's voice died away as the donkey bared its teeth in a most un-asinine snarl. "Er... perhaps not." His eyes alighted on Tarl. "Ah, now how about your little slave here? I'll give you a gold tablon for him!"

  Ronan's sword whirled viciously down onto the counter and sliced the wheelbarrow clean in half. There was a moment's silence.

  "Nice weapon. I'll give you five silver tablons for it..."

  "LOOK!" Ronan's voice shook the Trading Post to its foundations and started several minor landslides among the stacks around the walls. "We do NOT want to sell anything. And before you ask, we do NOT want to buy anything, either. We simply want to ask you if you can tell us where..."

  "Well, if you don't want to trade, what the klatting hell are you doing here, then?", came an indignant interruption. "This is a Trading Post. Where people trade. I am a trader. I trade for a living. My raison d'etre is trading. Trading is what I do. If you want to do a nice bit of trade, then I'm your man. None better. But if you don’t want to trade...."

  "But we do!", said Tarl. He held up a skin of his homemade wine. "We'll trade you this fine wine here, for some... information."

  "Now you're talking!" said the trader, excitedly. "What do you want to know?"

  "You've heard of Anthrax, the wizard?"


  "Anthrax? 'Course I have! He often comes in here for supplies." The trader indicated a shelf behind him, which was covered in tins and jars. Tarl peered at them. He could just make out a tin labelled "Gourmet Fenny-snake Fillets" next to another one labelled "Gatt and Boulder's Best Dog Tongues".

  "Can you tell us where he lives?"

  "Certainly! Head north up the track for about two miles until you come to the House of Nolan, Father of Many Daughters. Turn left, and head west for half a mile until you come to the edge of the Forest of Dreams. Anthrax's house is about fifty paces inside the forest edge."

  "Thanks!" Tarl tossed him the wineskin and turned to Ronan. "Come on, we'd better move!"

  Ronan hauled his sword out of the counter with difficulty, then threw the trader a dirty glance and followed his friend outside. He found Tarl peering worriedly along the road towards the east. In the far distance, he could just make out a small cloud of billowing dust.

  "Oh, klat!" swore Tarl. "Horsemen!"

  They started to run.

  Even carrying the backpack that he'd taken from the donkey, Ronan could have kept up a fast loping pace for a lot further than two and a half miles. Puss, with just the other pack to carry, could have trotted happily along all day. But Tarl was a different matter. The nearest he ever got to strenuous exercise was running up a large tab in a wine-bar. And now he was close to exhaustion.

  The horsemen too were tired, having ridden non-stop from Welbug. If it hadn't been for the trader, they would have already caught their quarry. When they stopped to ask him for news of Ronan he had insisted on bartering, and by the time they had struck a bargain Ronan and Tarl were halfway to the wizard's house. But now they were closing fast. They could see their quarry ahead, at the forest edge, and were almost within bowshot.

  Tarl felt as though his chest would burst. There was a pain like a sword-thrust in his side and his legs seemed to have turned into wobbly pillars of agony. He clutched at the first tree he came to and leant against it, making strange gasping snorts, like a pig with asthma.