Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  Tyson sat down beside the donkey, put an arm around its neck, and stared at the stone statues. "So, those are Nekros's men, are they?" she asked.

  "I think the phrase "were Nekros's men" would be more apt," said the donkey, nodding. "That Anthrax has quite a mean streak."

  "Then Ronan's all right? And Tarl?"

  The donkey sighed mournfully and looked sadly at its empty plate. "Well, it depends what you mean by all right," it said. "The wizard has provided them with all the knowledge they need to beat Nekros and sent them on their way to the Forest of Dreams. On the other hand, it's just the two of them now. And how the hell are a pair of dip-sticks like those two going to manage without you or me to look after them?"

  Tyson smiled. "Then we'd better find a way of following them," she said, and marched purposefully through the open door into the wizard's house.

  THE FOREST OF DREAMS

  And so did Ronan find himself in the Forest of Dreams, one of the most insidious places in all Midworld. This fell place is the last relic of the Great Forest of primeval times. Those travellers who have emerged sane from its dark reaches have strange tales to tell - tales of huge tree-like creatures that stalk the forest glades, spiders the size of a house that have the foulest of personal habits, and gigantic yellow-striped lizards that invite you home for tea and biscuits. The reason for these tales is simple - the Valdian Poppy.

  This strange semi-intelligent plant, with its large, superbly flavoured root, is regarded as a great delicacy. In order to avoid being dug up and eaten, it has evolved an unusual and quite remarkable defence. When touched the plant emits a narcotic gas so powerful that any creature within twenty paces is instantly transported into a psychedelic dream-world - hence the strange tales of walking trees and brightly-coloured lizards.

  Unfortunately for the Valdian Poppy, this clever strategy has one slight drawback. Its flower is so stunningly beautiful that the first thing anyone does in their blissed-out trance is to pluck it and place it in their hair. And so, although in the First Age it was semi-intelligent, by the time of the Second Age the poppy had its head ripped off so many times that its wits had become permanently scrambled, and it could hardly count up to three without getting confused...

  THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY

  The sudden transfer came as rather a shock to Ronan and Tarl. One minute, they had been standing immobilised in the wizard's lounge, listening to him being comprehensively out-argued by a small brown donkey, then suddenly the house had vanished and they found themselves in the middle of yet another forest. They had been in a few depressing stretches of woodland recently but this one was just about the worst. The undergrowth consisted entirely of thorny brambles and Stone-bushes. There wasn't a flower or a shrub or a blade of grass to be seen, and every tree seemed to be dying. Rotting logs and dead branches littered the forest floor. The only living things in sight were some clusters of unpleasant wart-covered brown toadstools that had erupted from a few of the fallen trees, and a group of emaciated rabbits that were vainly foraging amongst the rotting debris.

  "Well, that was a lot of use," said Tarl, sitting down gingerly on a moss-covered tree-stump. "We travel all that way to see the greatest wizard in Frundor, as somebody called him, and what do we come away with? A can-full of ingredients and an incipient nervous breakdown! And we've lost Puss. Great!"

  "No, we've done well!" insisted Ronan. "We know I'll find Nekros within six days. And two of the things my father's rhyme mentioned have been explained. We've got the magic potion, and we'll find the dwarfish chart in the castle of King Albran."

  "Yeah, but what about the rest of the rhyme? Sword of Myth shall Sing again - what's all that about?"

  "It must mean one of the Singing Swords of Legend. Our village storyteller used to sing of them. Akra, the Sword that Sings for the Glory of Battle, Vanda, the Sword that Sings as it Drinks the Blood of Enemies, and Linda, the Sword that Hums to Itself as it Does the Housework." Ronan paused. "Don't you know the Ancient Lays?"

  "You mean like on Fridays in the Pink Centaur Club, when they used to have Grab-a-Granny night?"

  "No, no! I mean the old folk-songs that were passed down from father to son!"

  "Oh, them!" Tarl frowned, and started moodily to pull bits of moss off the tree-stump (thereby unintentionally rendering some thousands of small insects homeless. It's a cruel world). "No, some bloke with a beard and a woolly pullover standing there with his finger in his ear, droning on about something that happened two hundred years ago, that's not my idea of good music. There's no danger to it. I like something that has a fair chance of permanently damaging an ear-drum."

  He was about to expound on his dislike of folk music when Ronan shushed him. He seemed to be listening to something. Tarl followed suit. He could just make out a distant rhythmic noise that was slowly growing louder. It was the sound of marching feet.

  "Oh, not again!" he breathed. "Not more orcs!" Ronan beckoned silently and the two of them slipped into the dense cover provided by a Stone-bush. Gradually, the noise increased as dozens of feet in perfect step grew nearer and nearer. The very floor of the forest shook, and the trees around them vibrated to the rhythm. Louder and louder it grew, until their ears rang and their teeth rattled. Ronan had never heard an army that marched in such perfect step together. Intrigued, he peered out between the leaves of the bush, and then stared in amazement as the feet hove into view.

  They were owned by a twenty-foot high millipede, which was barging its way through the forest like a tank, crushing bushes and knocking down any trees that happened to be in its way. Its chitinous armour gleamed in the green light of the forest as its segments ebbed and flowed with peristaltic movement. Its antennae waved and twirled in front of it, seeking the path of least resistance between the trees, and its jet-black eyes glittered malevolently. Suddenly it came to a halt, and the silence that fell on the forest seemed almost deafening. For a moment the warrior dared not breath, as the antennae twirled towards him, sifting the air, searching for information. Then the black eyes of the giant creature met his, and the huge mouth opened.

  "Afternoon," it said. "Nice day."

  Then it was moving again, crashing its way past the Stone-bush like an earthquake. The feet seemed to be marching past for minutes, and then at last the millipede was gone, the sound of its passage diminishing until it was just a murmur, like a roll of distant thunder. The whole forest seemed to draw breath in relief.

  Tarl opened his eyes and crawled tiredly out into the open. "I've changed my mind. I think I'd like to go back to Welbug now, if it's all the same to you," he said.

  Ronan smiled. "Look," he said. "We're perfectly safe. I mean, you've got to admit that as giant millipedes go, that one was a real softy."

  "Ha!" snorted Tarl. "Safe? We're lost in the middle of a forest inhabited by invertebrates the size of a house! I for one do not want to be here when we stumble across a scorpion!"

  "We're not lost. I reckon Anthrax has put us in the middle of the Forest of Dreams, right beside the Castle of the Wood-elves. Listen!"

  Once again, Tarl strained his ears. This time, he could hear the sound of a distant trumpet, muted and elegant.

  "That's an elven horn," said Ronan. "Wood-elves are the kindest and most hospitable of folk. You are going to enjoy tonight!"

  "Humph!" grunted Tarl. "You'd better be right!" But as his friend set off towards the distant sound of the trumpet, he followed with a light heart, for he too had heard of the kindness of Wood-elves and their legendary generosity. He'd also heard that they knew how to party.

  The elven castle reminded Tarl very much of Welbug. From a distance it looked elegant and welcoming, with its soaring towers and slender turrets glittering in the evening light, and flags and banners fluttering in the breeze. Yet as they neared it they began to see signs of disrepair. One small tower had collapsed into the moat, a second had no tiles on its roof, and a third was leaning at a drunken angle, surrounded by scaffolding. Several windows had been untidily
bricked up, and a large area of the front wall had been covered in cheap and nasty-looking stone cladding, which in places was coming away.

  When they reached the drawbridge, they found that although lowered, it seemed to be stuck about four feet off the ground, and they had to scramble up on to it. As they walked across, they could see that some large holes had been repaired with plywood that had started to peel away. Underneath, the moat contained rather a lot of rubbish, including some broken scaffolding, a lot of empty cement sacks, and an old wheelbarrow.

  The massive oak doors were shut. Ronan raised his fist and hammered on the small wicket set within them. "Now you'll see some typical elven hospitality!" he smiled to Tarl, and at these words the wicket door burst open and a hoard of elven soldiers came pouring out, all waving swords and yelling abuse.

  Ronan's reactions were quick. Drawing his sword, he defended himself desperately. Tarl's reactions were even quicker, and he had surrendered before an elf got near him. Despite their numbers the elves were limited by the narrowness of the drawbridge, and their small elven swords were no match for the massive broadsword that Ronan whirled about him. But when one of the elves held his sword to Tarl's throat Ronan was left with little option. Stifling a curse he threw down his weapon and was immediately overpowered.

  "Bind the humans in chains and cast them into the lowest dungeon," yelled the Captain of the elven guards, and then he kicked Tarl in the stomach. "Klatting builders!" he muttered.

  Before Ronan or Tarl could so much as blink they were being manhandled through the gates and down a long stone stairway towards the depths of the castle. Tarl couldn't believe it.

  "What is this effect you have on everybody?" he yelled back at Ronan, as they were hustled along a dark and chilly passage. One of the elves unlocked a door and Tarl found himself flying through the air towards the hard-looking floor of a sparse stone cell. "So much for partying," he thought, and then his head connected with a flagstone and he knew no more.

  As far as Tarl was concerned, he might as well have been partying. The end result was the same - he woke up next morning with a mother of a headache. Groaning, he sat up, and was disappointed to find that it hadn't been some wild dream brought on by over-indulgence. He really was stuck in a gloomy stone-flagged cell lit only by a single flickering torch. In one corner, a small brown rabbit was scratching its nose. Ronan sat nearby, arms fettered, examining a large tray of food on the ground by the door.

  "There you are," he said. "I told you elves looked after their guests. Check this lot out! Fresh bread, honey, cheeses, elf-cakes, fruit, a flagon of water, and a flagon of wine!"

  "Great. And I suppose they're so concerned for our health that they have to lock us up in this dungeon for our own safety! Some hosts! I can't believe it! I mean, slinging us in here for no reason at all... that's not the elf justice that's famous the world over!"

  "Yeah, well, it seems that..."

  "Elves are legendary for their enlightened views," cut in Tarl. "Legendary! Do you know what happens to you in elven law if you commit adultery? You get stoned!"

  Ronan was horrified. "They throw stones at you? You're joking!"

  "No, no, you get really stoned. Stoned out of your mind! You and your lover and the cuckolded partner are locked in a room with an endless supply of Elfweed, and you're not allowed out until you've all come to some sort of amicable arrangement. I mean, that is so enlightened it's brilliant!" He paused, shook his head sadly, and then wished he hadn't, as it felt as though the top had come off. "But slinging folk into dungeons for no reason at all, that's not like them," he continued. Then a nasty thought struck him. "Hey - you don't suppose Nekros has got at them, do you?"

  Ronan had been patiently waiting to get a word in. "No," he said, "That's not it. While you were out cold I had a bit of a chat with one of the guards. Apparently Albran has had a bad time at the hands of mortal men lately. I take it you noticed the state of the castle when we entered? Well, Albran decided it was time for a spot of renovation, but instead of using elven masons, he brought in this firm of human builders from Carn Betw. They were much cheaper, or something. The problem was, they were crap. They spent half their time sitting round playing cards and making disgusting suggestions to every elf maiden they saw. Then they knocked down some vital supporting walls and the north tower disappeared into the moat. They blocked off the wrong areas, put in doors that didn't fit, and generally made such a mess of the place that Albran refused to pay them any money until they put everything right. So they downed tools and are refusing to come back until Albran pays for the work done so far."

  Tarl winced. "Yeah, that's pretty bad, but it's not our fault, right?"

  "There's more. Feccatun, Albran's favourite daughter, ran off with one of the plasterers. He heard last week that she's pregnant. And then the final straw came two days ago. A couple of travellers called at the castle gates and despite everything, Albran took them in, threw a feast for them, and generally gave them the whole elven hospitality thing. But sometime in the middle of the night they disappeared. And the Elvenstone of Borachim disappeared with them!"

  "The what?"

  "The Elvenstone of Borachim. Some magic jewel or other that Albran sets a high store upon. Apparently it's supposed to ensure luck for the royal household."

  "Sounds as though they're better off without it!" Tarl shuffled over to the tray and looked at the array of food and drink. He was starting to feel a little happier. "So when they realise it's nothing to do with us, they'll let us go, right?" he asked, and helped himself to a couple of cakes.

  "I wouldn't be too sure," said Ronan, pessimistically. "The guard reckons that although most ordinary elves would be pretty sympathetic to us, the royal family are really pissed off with humans."

  Tarl looked at him sourly. "Well anyway, this puts any idea of taking on Nekros out of the question," he said through a mouthful of cake. "And thank the Gods for that! I mean," he continued, warming to his theme, "you're very good when it comes to slicing up orcs, or the average footpad, or other warriors. But the minute you step out of your league, you're screwed! Firstly, Tyson did you. Figuratively and literally. And then Anthrax. And now this gang of elves. What sort of a mess would Nekros have made of you, eh? Well, at least we don't have to worry about that. When Albran decides to let us out, let's just go straight back to Welbug and visit the girls again. We'll be safe enough with Tyson around."

  He paused, and broke off some bread and cheese. It had gone very quiet. He looked up to see Ronan staring at him with the expression of a little boy whose brand new cuddly puppy-dog has just bitten his hand off.

  "Well, it needed saying!" he added, grumpily.

  "Now, you listen here!" yelled the furious warrior. "I would have had no trouble with those elves if you hadn't surrendered! We could easily have held them off. But no, not you, first sight of a sword and you're throwing down your own weapon quicker than a... than a... than something extremely quick," he finished lamely.

  "It's called using your brain. You want to try it sometime."

  "Here, who was it saved your life when those orcs appeared, eh?"

  "Puss. Or hadn't you noticed the orc archer?"

  "You ungrateful little..."

  "You big boneheaded muscle-bound...."

  "Rat-face!"

  "Bollock-brain!"

  "Katimo!"

  With an expressionless face Tarl got up and hammered on the door.

  "Hey!" he yelled. "Guard! I want to be moved to a different cell. Preferably rat-infested. I'm not happy with the company in here!"

  Behind him Ronan, Vanquisher of Evil and Slayer of Thousands, turned his back on his companion and sat staring sulkily at the wall.

  After several hours of silence, Ronan was really beginning to get on Tarl's nerves. "They're all the same, these warriors," he thought, as he carefully scratched another dirty limerick onto the wall of the cell with his belt-buckle. "Bloody prima donnas! They have to bathe in admiration! Any criticism and we get th
e big sulks!"

  As it happened, Ronan wasn't sulking any more. Although Tarl's sudden outburst had hurt his ego, it had also made him think. And he'd been thinking hard for the past few hours. Ronan's big problem was that, since his second year in warrior school, he'd had things all his own way. Everything in his world had been either black or white, evil or good. If things were good, you left them alone, and if evil, you took them on. And for the past three or four years, everything Ronan had taken on he had beaten. Outlaws and bandits, orcs, mountain trolls, the odd rogue lenkat, whatever. He'd almost come to think of himself as invincible. Now all of a sudden he had been dragged back into the real world. He wasn't invincible at all. An assassin's blade or an orc arrow could easily kill him. A wizard could turn him into a frog with one hand tied behind his back.

  And not everything was as black or white as he had grown up believing. Anthrax wasn't a particularly evil guy, yet he'd been prepared to sell them down the river to Nekros. And the wood-elves were basically good guys, yet they'd turned on him. As he'd already discovered, the major problem with being a Vanquisher of Evil is the moral aspect. You can't just cut loose with your sword whenever you feel like it. He wasn't going to be able to carve his way out of the elven castle in a sea of blood. A little more subtlety was called for. The problem was, subtlety wasn't Ronan's long suit.

  He'd also realised that he needed a bit more than brute strength to track down his enemy and kill him. He had always had this image in his mind of his own stern figure facing a terrified Nekros who, after a brief fight, would die screaming on the end of his sword. Now he knew that his enemy was a powerful figure at the heart of a vast organisation. Without help, Ronan stood about as much chance of killing him as that little brown rabbit in the corner did. He'd only been able to get as far as he had because people had helped. For the first time in his life, Ronan was appreciating the value of friends.