Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  "Come on, Tarl!" yelled Ronan, from ahead. "Just a few more yards! We must be near the wizards house!"

  "Where?" gasped Tarl, in desperation. "Look around you! There's no sign of a house anywhere!" Then an arrow stuck quivering in the tree above his head, and with a yelp of fright he staggered into the forest.

  Ronan grabbed his arm and dragged him after the donkey, which was trotting purposefully further into the trees.

  "It must be here somewhere!" he muttered, staring round wildly. "If it's not, then we'll just have to fight!"

  "Oh, come on!" yelled Tarl. "They've got bows! We've had it! They'll just pick us off!"

  As if to lend credence to his words, two more arrows whirred past them. A third hummed past Tarl's ear and thumped into Ronan's backpack. They staggered blindly on for a few more paces with the triumphant yells of their pursuers ringing in their ears, and then all at once the trees and the very air ahead of them seemed to shimmer like a reflection on the surface of suddenly-disturbed water. They burst through the shimmering air as though through a mirror, and in an instant, a house appeared out of nowhere in front of them, as solid and real as the arrow in Ronan's pack. Behind them, the sound of their pursuers vanished as though a door had closed.

  As Tarl collapsed gasping to the floor beside the donkey, Ronan stared back the way they had come. He could see clearly beyond the confines of the forest, yet there wasn't even a trace of their hunters. They seemed to have vanished into thin air. He turned back, and studied the house in front of them.

  It was a beautiful whitewashed cottage, with roses growing up the walls, birds singing happily in the eaves of the thatched roof, and butterflies floating like litter on the breeze amongst the profusion of flowers that clustered about the red stone path leading to the front door. The whole place seemed to be bathed in sunshine, despite the fact that it was situated in the gloom of the forest and shaded by fifty-foot high trees. It gave the impression that someone had scooped it up off a sun-covered hillside, complete with its surrounding light, and dumped it here.

  Ronan helped the rapidly-recovering Tarl to his feet, then gave the donkey a happy pat and strolled up the path. If this isn't a wizard's house, he thought, then I don't know what is. He raised his fist and knocked heartily on the solid oak front door.

  "Oi! What the frigging hell do you think you're playing at?" roared an adenoidal voice.

  Ronan took a step back and looked around, surprised.

  "You walk up here, cool as you please, and start thumping people!" continued the voice. "You're not on, pal! If I could move, I'd clock you one!"

  Ronan stared round, baffled. Tarl moved next to him and whispered. "I think it's the door! You must have upset it! I don't think it's used to being knocked on!""

  Indeed, the door did seem to be quivering on its hinges with indignation. It suddenly yelled "Oi, Scotty! Did you see that?"

  "Aye, I did" boomed a voice from behind them. They turned to see a huge pine tree by the gate looming over them threateningly. "See you, pal, don't you come throwing your weight around here!" continued the voice, and the tree lashed violently as though struck by a gale. A large dead branch crashed to the ground beside Tarl, showering the donkey with splinters.

  Behind the pine, other trees were starting to sway ominously and there was a steady rising tide of aggrieved muttering. Ronan stood there indecisively, hand on the hilt of his sword, unsure what to do. He'd never been attacked by coniferous woodland before. Then Tarl pushed past him and stood in front of the door.

  "Look, I apologise for my friend here," he said, soothingly. "It's just that where we come from, it's normal to knock on doors. Doors don't mind. And that way, people on the other side of the door know that someone wants to come through, and they come and open it. We're certainly not used to doors with an intelligence like yours!"

  "Is that a fact?" said the door, mollified.

  "Yeah," said Tarl, and rested a friendly hand on the door. "All we wanted to do was let Anthrax know we were here. We certainly didn't mean to cause offence."

  "Oh," said the door. "Well, er... look, I'm sorry if I flew off the handle a bit. I've had rather a trying time of late." It lowered its voice confidentially. "It's the windows, you know. We don't get on." Then it raised its voice and spoke in a more business-like manner. "I'll just let the boss know you're here."

  There was a silence. Tarl and Ronan stood and waited. Behind them the trees seemed to be settling down. Then the door suddenly burst into life again.

  "He won't be a moment," it chirped. "And in the meantime, here is some music for your enjoyment."

  A horrible tinny tune started to emanate from the door. It sounded as though someone was playing a toy xylophone in the bottom of an enormous oil-drum. Tarl winced, then stepped back and turned to Ronan.

  "It's no good going at everything like a minotaur at a gate. Sometimes you need to use a little tact... a little persuasion..."

  "I only knocked on the door!" said Ronan, indignantly.

  "Yeah, and look at the result. It's a good job you've got me with you!"

  "Now, you listen..." began Ronan, indignantly, but then the music stopped abruptly, the door swung open, and a man appeared.

  Both Tarl and Ronan stared at him in amazement. He looked about twenty-five years old, was clean-shaven, and had a very neat haircut and a deep tan. He was wearing an exquisitely-tailored suit, cut in a style that would have had Giorgio Armani or Jean Paul Gaultier literally weeping with jealousy. And in a world where the height of masculine chic was generally regarded as being jerkin, breeches, and leg-thongs, the effect can only be described as a knockout. The only hint that here was a man who was involved in wizardry was his tie, which was covered in tiny magic wands, pentagons, pointed hats, and odd cabalistic symbols.

  "Good afternoon," he said politely, in an elegantly refined and rather plummy voice.

  "Anthrax?" asked Ronan, doubtfully.

  "I'm afraid so," smiled the man. "These childhood nick-names do tend to stick to one. I used to suffer from the most terrible acne, you see... My real name is Nigel, but if you're happy with it, you may call me Anthrax."

  "I am Ronan, Vanquisher of..."

  "I know," interrupted Anthrax. "I've been expecting you." He looked them both up and down. "You seem a little... flushed."

  "That's because we've been chased most of the way here and nearly killed," burst out Tarl. He gestured towards the edge of the forest. "There's at least twenty of them, all on horses, with bows and swords..." His voice trailed off, as he peered through the trees to the edge of the forest. There still wasn't a soul to be seen. "Well, they were there a minute ago," he finished uncertainly.

  "I've arranged a minor temporal displacement," Anthrax told him. "They won't be here for several hours now. You'd better come in." And with that he turned and disappeared inside the cottage, and Ronan, Tarl and the donkey followed him in.

  The room in which they found themselves seemed far too large for the cottage. One wall was entirely taken up by a bookcase full of leather-bound tomes, in front of which was a circular library table and a number of comfortable leather chairs. Along a second wall was a wooden workbench covered in glass jars, vials, beakers, and tubes. Above this was a glass-fronted wall-cupboard full of chemicals, and at one end was an alcove, screened off by a heavy curtain. The third wall was covered in posters, paintings, charts and wall-hangings from every world and time imaginable. There was a very rude piece of the Bayeaux Tapestry (which had been edited out in 1081 A.D.), a wanted poster for Perkin Warbeck, Leonardo's third (and best) version of the Virgin of the Rocks, Leif Ericson's chart of the route to America, a letter from someone called Hitler to someone else called Chamberlain (undertaking to pull out of Poland within the next week), a poster for a film called Reservoir Dogs, and a glossy advertisement for Sunburst Star-tour Holidays ("We put the you in Universe").

  "Please, make yourselves at home," the Wizard began, and then the courteous smile faded from his face to be replaced by
a frown as his gaze fell upon the donkey. "Who brought that filthy animal in here?" he demanded.

  "I did," thought Puss. "His name's Tarl. I'm sorry about the smell."

  For a moment, Anthrax gazed at it, and then his face creased up and he roared with laughter. The donkey felt a feather-light touch caressing its mind, and stared at the wizard suspiciously. Tarl and Ronan, who were not privy to the donkey's thoughts, just stared at him blankly.

  "Oh, yes!" grinned Anthrax. "I don't think your intellect should be confined to telepaths!"

  He lifted a hand and muttered something. A little group of whirling sparks of light formed in front of him and drifted across to settle around the donkey's head. They floated there for a moment, and then suddenly seemed to burst in a flare of light. The donkey blinked and wrinkled its nose as though about to sneeze.

  "Here, that tickled!" it said.

  Tarl stared at it incredulously. "Where the hell did you learn to speak?" he asked, in amazement.

  Puss looked at him pityingly. "Night-school," it replied. "Where the hell do you think? I mean, here we are, standing in the workroom of the most powerful wizard in Frundor, and wham! Suddenly I can talk. I don't suppose the answer could possibly be... magic? No, no! Surely not!"

  Tarl shook his head in wonder. "Well, bugger me!" he said.

  "No thanks," said Puss. "I'm fed up, not hard up." And it wandered across to a small hole in the skirting board and stood there, sniffing delicately. It was feeling peckish and it thought it could smell mice.

  It is only fair to warn readers who may be thinking of using a Spell of Animal Talking that such incantations can have both advantages and disadvantages. Here is an excerpt from "Old Raxie's Book of Charms for Children" (Second Edition. The first edition was withdrawn after an unfortunate transcription error resulted in the Exploding Hamsters outbreak).

  Always be careful about which animals you confer the gift of speech upon. Donkeys or foxes can be most entertaining and witty.... but cats are very sarcastic, horses moan incessantly, and sheep talk non-stop about grass. If you're happy with the idea of a three-hour monologue on the dietary advantages of rye-grass over couch-grass, then by all means, cast a Spell of Animal Talking on your favourite sheep. But don't say I didn't warn you!

  Ronan had been staring round at Anthrax's workroom with an increasing sense of awe. There was so much here that he didn't understand! He picked up an electric toothbrush from the workbench and pressed the button on the side, then nearly dropped it in surprise when it started to hum busily. Like most other people in his world, Ronan had never heard of electricity. For a moment he peered closely at the vibrating head, wondering what the hell it was for, and then enlightenment hit him. He held it against his belt buckle, and grinned as it began to polish the metal.

  "Amazing! Tarl, look at this magical buckle-polisher!" He stared at Anthrax, a little awe-struck. " How do you produce such wonders?"

  Anthrax gave a smug little smile. "I don't suppose you're familiar with the theory of parallel universes?" he asked. Ronan looked at him blankly.

  "He means," said the donkey, "that at every moment of choice, other realities split off from ours like fingers from a hand, so that every possibility is realised in one or another of these worlds." It paused and looked sourly at Anthrax. "It might even be conceivable that in one of them, a wizard called Anthrax has actually offered some refreshment to his visitors."

  "Yes, yes!" said the wizard, impatiently, and clicked his fingers. A bale of hay materialised beside the donkey.

  "Oh, great," it said. "Rabbit food. Thank you so much."

  "With the help of a little magic," continued the tight-lipped wizard, rather crossly, "it is possible to send things through tiny worm-holes in space to these other universes. For example..."

  He looked around for a suitable object and then opened a cage that was resting on top of the workbench and extracted a large fat toad. He balanced this on his hand for a moment, muttered a low incantation, and stabbed a finger at it. The toad vanished with an audible pop and Tarl and Ronan gasped. The wizard kept his hand extended.

  "And whenever you do that," he said, "you get something back." He waited for a moment. There was another pop, and a smallish black book materialised and fell into his waiting hand. Ronan grabbed it and leafed through it in wonder.

  "This must be a book of spells belonging to some powerful wizard!" he said, "Look! He's engraved his name in gold on the cover!"

  "Could well be," replied Anthrax. "I wonder. Filofax... good name for a Wizard!" He took the book back from Ronan and bounced it up and down in his hand. "You see, this is the problem. You're never sure what you're going to get back... it could be something obvious, like a cheese sandwich, or it could be something totally baffling."

  "Could... could a man travel to another world this way?" asked Ronan.

  "Oh, yes. In fact my assistant, Van Damme, has already done so. He positively demanded that I send him. So I did. I do hope he's all right, wherever he is!" The wizard sighed reflectively. "In return, I got this bloke called Lucan. Absolutely charming chap, though a bit puzzled about what had happened. Gave me some pretty good tips about clothes...

  "You see, one thing I have noticed about all this is that the item you get back always weighs exactly the same as the thing you send. I've actually postulated a little law about it." The wizard cleared his throat, then said rather self-consciously, "For every action, there must be an equal and opposite reaction." He paused, and then carried on a shade doubtfully. "I'm pretty sure that I'm right. That is, unless I'm totally wrong. But then, I don't suppose it matters."

  Unfortunately, it did matter, rather a lot. For at that very moment in a parallel universe, a panicking sales representative was desperately trying to extract the telephone number of an extremely vital contact from a large, green, and rather puzzled toad. However, his failure to contact this client and arrange a meeting, the resulting collapse of a massive sales contract, and his subsequent dismissal, unemployment, and slide into alcoholism and vagrancy form no part of this narrative...

  A while later, Tarl, Ronan and Anthrax were sitting at the table, finishing off the food and wine that the wizard had produced out of nowhere. The food was something called "lasagne", the recipe for which had come through one of Anthrax's little wormholes. Tarl thought it was one of the best things he'd ever eaten. He wasn't so sure about the wine, though. There wasn't even a single lump in it.

  Anthrax had insisted on a policy of no business with dinner, so although the conversation had ranged far and wide (with the donkey taking a surprisingly knowledgeable rôle), the name of Nekros had not yet been mentioned. But now, as Anthrax pushed back the dishes and handed round some fat Elfweed cigarettes, Ronan could wait no longer. Quickly he outlined the reasons for his quest, his father's warning, and all that he had learned from Tyson.

  "So... is it true? Did you say that you could you help me?" he asked. Anthrax sat back and studied him for a moment.

  "Of course I can help you," he said. "Don't be fooled by my urbane sophistication. When it comes to the... Wiz Biz," and here he drew imaginary inverted commas in the air with the first two fingers of each hand, "I'm the best there is. Spells, charms, transformations, you want it, I got it. If you'd like proof, take a look at your little friend over there."

  He indicated Tarl, who was sitting back, wineglass in one hand, spliff in the other, oblivious to everything. The wizard muttered something and two little balls of light shot from his eyes, smashing into Tarl, who instantly turned into a very surprised looking frog. It sat there for a few seconds, blinking, and then there was a brief flash, and Tarl was back in his normal form. He looked rather stunned and gazed at his cigarette in awe.

  "What IS this stuff?" he muttered. The wizard turned back to Ronan.

  "Anything is possible," he smiled.

  "Then tell me how to defeat Nekros!"

  Anthrax crossed to the bookcase and took down a large volume that had the legend "Nav-Nyc" inscribed on t
he spine. He opened it and started leafing through, muttering to himself.

  "Neck-ties... necrophilia...Nekros the Blue..."

  "Nekros the Blue?" interrupted Ronan.

  "A different Nekros. He was a very bad comedian. Absolutely awful. He died on stage - literally - at the Humiliation Club, in Goblin City. Apparently he was so bad that within ten minutes of the start of his act the audience had dismembered and eaten him. And that can't have been easy, as he weighed a good sixteen stone. Ah, there he is! Nekros the Black. Here. Know thine enemy."

  The wizard handed the open book to Ronan, who began to read with difficulty. The pages were covered in neat, methodical writing, but they might as well have been in a foreign language. There were some words that he vaguely understood, such as syphilis, or misogynist, but there were many others that were way beyond him. What on earth was a sociopath? Nekros was, apparently, and he was also a paranoid schizophrenic, whatever that meant. Baffled, Ronan shook his head and looked at Anthrax, who was standing by the curtained-off alcove gazing thoughtfully into space.

  "Well," mused the wizard, "taking into account your father's message, I think we need an on-going double-stage precognatory diagnosis incorporating the infusion of a telekinetic hydrolyte and a transubstantiatory ergonomic locution."

  "Beg pardon?" said Ronan.

  "Two predictions, a magic potion, and a Word of Power," said the donkey, happily. It had just finished its fourth helping of lasagne.

  "Yes, all right, smarty-pants!" snapped Anthrax, and pulled back the curtain.

  In the alcove were what looked to Ronan like two vast metal boxes covered in buttons and flashing lights. Inside one, several reels of tape could be seen gently turning. Anthrax started pressing the buttons on it, and the box began to make a whirring sound. The reels started to whiz round, the lights flashed even faster, and a long stream of paper came churning out of a slot at the front. The wizard scanned this paper, humming to himself.