Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  He led Ronan along the dank stone passage, past cellars and wine-stores, and through a labyrinth of little corridors, until at last he paused before a small wooden door. "Through here," he said, "and up the stairs. Then along the passage to the left, and the fourth door is the Chart Room. You'll find Queenie in there!"

  "Thanks, Vosene!" said Ronan, and slapped him on the back so hard he nearly knocked him over. "I owe you one."

  The elf raised an arch eyebrow. "I can hardly wait," he replied. And then he patted Ronan's arm, and with a muttered "Good luck, dear," he was gone, gliding off down the passageway into the darkness.

  The Chart Room was long and low-ceilinged, with wooden racks and shelves on all four walls holding pile upon pile of dust-covered parchments and scrolls. Cobwebs festooned the walls, and in the centre of the room was a single broad table. When Ronan gingerly pushed open the only door and peered in, he was amazed to find the queen leaning over the table, pouring over an ancient map, with Tarl at her side. She looked up and smiled at him, and he was almost overwhelmed by her beauty.

  "Your majesty!" he said in awe, bowing low.

  Tarl winked at the queen. "I'm sorry about this, Silvie," he said. "The poor lad suffers from delusions of inadequacy."

  Ronan stared at him, appalled by this familiarity, but to his surprise the queen didn't seem to mind.

  "Please accept my humblest apologies," she said. "Our treatment of you has been shameful. I'm afraid my husband isn't himself."

  "No, no, it is quite understandable! What with your daughter, and those klat... er, those foul builders, and the Elvenstone..."

  "Oh, we're not really worried about Feccatun," smiled the queen. "She's run off with a nice boy, and it will be pleasant to have a grand-child. And as for the Elvenstone, well, that was no loss. I'll let you in to a little secret." She leaned forward, and spoke in lowered tones. "It was paste! I had an imitation made some months ago, and then sold the original. You see, it was a horrible thing, really ugly, and of no use whatsoever. And with the castle needing so many repairs, I thought the money would come in useful. But then Albran has to try and cut corners by employing the biggest load of bandits in the West as builders. And now the castle is in a worse state than ever. That's what is really irking him. But it's his own fault. I'm afraid I've run out of sympathy."

  "So Silvie is making amends by helping us," said Tarl. "We've been looking at charts. Dwarfish charts. There are two of them. This one shows how to find some vast underground city in the mountains of the Dwarf Lands. The entrance is here, look, above the town of Carn Betw." He pointed at the faded parchment that was laid out on the table.

  "That must be Samoth," said Ronan. "The lost city of the dwarves, carved deep under the mountains from the living stone. It is said that they abandoned it years ago." He studied the map for a few moments, and his face creased in a frown. "But I cannot see how this can help me in my quest," he said.

  "Ah," said Tarl, unrolling a filthy, bewebbed scroll. "But just look at this second chart. It's a large-scale map of Samoth, and look here, near the north end of the city, next to this cavern that's labelled the Bridge of Eldabad."

  "What is it?" asked Ronan, taking the scroll. He looked where Tarl was pointing, and his eyes blazed. "The Cavern of the Singing Sword!" he gasped.

  "So what do you reckon, hey?" asked Tarl, proudly. "Have we struck gold, or have we struck gold?" All of a sudden, he was caught up in the excitement of the quest again. "Where is this Carn Betw," he asked, turning to the elven queen.

  "It is built on an island downstream, outside the boundaries of the forest," she replied. "The River Betw flows through caves beneath the castle. There was much trade along the river between the town and castle... or there was, in the days when we had things to trade. Now they send us wines, food, clothing, and in return we send them rabbit meat, rabbit fur, and live rabbits." She sighed sadly.

  At that moment, they heard the sound of distant trumpets, raised in an urgent, insistent call. The queen rushed to the door with Ronan at her side and listened for a moment. In the distance they could hear the sound of many scampering feet. "They have discovered your escape," gasped the queen. "Quick, there is no time to waste! Follow me!"

  With that she was gone, fleeing down the passage. Ronan followed her, and Tarl quickly rolled up both the charts, pocketed a small leather-bound book that had caught his eye, and scrambled after them.

  Ronan was waiting in an archway at the end of the passage. "Have you got the scrolls?" he yelled, urgently.

  "No," yelled back Tarl, "it's just the way I'm walking!" Giggling hysterically to himself, he rushed past Ronan and charged up some stairs after Silvana. She was waiting for them at the top, holding open a thick oaken door.

  "Straight down the passage and left at the end," she told them. "Through the door is a set of stairs that takes you right down to a postern gate onto the moat. Then head west. Quick! I'll lock this door behind you."

  The door clicked shut behind them. Ronan and Tarl sped down the corridor and round the corner - and found that the builders had struck again. The passageway was totally bricked up. Behind them distant shouts could be heard. Ronan jerked open the nearest door, found yet another set of stairs, and dashed up them with Tarl at his heels.

  At the top they paused and eased open the door. It led into the Great Hall. The place was deserted save for a couple of hundred rabbits, which were polishing off the remains of the banquet, and for the elven minstrel Morrisey, who was sitting in a corner nursing a lump on his head the size of an apple. Quietly, gingerly, they picked their way through the overturned tables and spilt crockery towards a door on the other side. Then, when they were some ten paces short, the vast double doors at the far end of the Hall opened and the king strode in, followed by some thirty guards.

  At first he was so busy issuing instructions that he didn't even notice his two escaped prisoners. But then Tarl discovered one of those immutable laws of nature. Whenever you desperately need to keep completely, totally silent, you are going to make the most God-awful racket. Although he could have sworn that he hardly moved a muscle, he somehow managed to knock over an entire table. For a moment, as plates, cups, bottles and rabbits cascaded to the floor, the elves stared at them in amazement, and then all hell broke loose.

  Tarl stood rooted to the spot in horror as the elves charged at them, snarling with fury. Ronan grabbed him and leapt for the door. They burst through with arrows skipping and whizzing about them and slammed it shut. Dropping Tarl, Ronan thrust the bolt home, and then grabbed a heavy wooden table and wedged it against the stout oak door.

  "That should hold them for a couple of minutes," he panted. "Let's get out of here."

  "How?" asked Tarl.

  Ronan gazed round. They were standing in a large kitchen, which was remarkably well supplied with pots, pans, dishes, and implements of every description. Unfortunately, when it came to such things as windows and doors the room was woefully under-supplied. Apart from the door they had burst through, there wasn't one to be seen. They were stuck in a dead end.

  Behind them there was a massive crash, and the oaken timbers creaked under the strain. The elves were beginning to hammer their way in.

  In an expensively furnished room in a southern city, six smartly dressed men were discussing the progress of their strategy when a deferential underling hurried in and handed a message to the man at the head of the table. He scanned it expressionlessly and then cleared his throat gently. The others were instantly silent.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "it would seem that we have another slight setback. Influenced by Tyson and the events in Welbug, the citizens of Minas Welvair have risen up. Apparently our people have had to flee for their lives. We have lost control of both cities."

  "Then should we not order Nekros to stay in the East?" asked one of the others.

  "Without him and his tribe, the rising in Port Raid cannot succeed. He must be there in five days time. The East will have to wait."

  "W
hat does Anthrax advise?"

  There was a slight pause. "Acquisitions informs us that Anthrax has, for the moment, ah, withdrawn his services from our employ."

  "But without the wizard we are half blind! No-one else has such power!"

  "We shall manage. Our plans are already made."

  "But what if Albran fails us?"

  "He will not. The black warrior is trapped. Within minutes, he will be dead..."

  In the kitchen Ronan was pacing round, examining everything, seeking some inspiration. Tarl had been helping him until he found a bottle of Balroger champagne, after which he had helped himself. Outside the door the elves had redoubled their efforts. The wood was beginning to splinter and was obviously about to give way.

  Then Ronan noticed a hatchway that was set at floor level in one wall and was hidden behind a row of waste-bins. He pushed them to one side and hauled it open. Inside he could see a stone chute that disappeared downwards into darkness. Cold air wafted up, and he could just make out the sound of running water.

  "Tarl," he called. "Look at this! It must be the waste disposal chute. I think it must go straight down into the River Betw."

  "So what use is a waste disposal chute? The bottle isn't empty yet."

  "It's a way out."

  Tarl shook his head. "Sorry," he said obstinately, "but you're not getting me down there. I might hurt myself."

  Ronan ducked as an arrow whizzed through a hole in the oak door. "It is just a slide," he said. "It may be dark, but it's nothing to be scared of!"

  "Listen, I'm not scared! You're talking to a man who has been down the Suislide at the Welbug Summer Fair and gone back for more! This is nothing!"

  "So what's the problem?" asked Ronan.

  Tarl looked a bit ashamed. "I can't swim," he muttered.

  Ronan eyes swept round the room and lit on a barrel that was standing nearby. "In here!" he said, and dragged Tarl across to it by the arm. Tarl looked as though he was about to argue, but when Ronan took the top off, he peered inside and just nodded.

  "OK," he said, and climbed into the barrel clutching the bottle in one hand. Ronan thrust the elven charts in after him, hammered the lid into place with a wooden mallet that was hanging on the wall with other kitchen implements, and then trundled the barrel across to the chute.

  As he did so the door burst open, and several armed elf soldiers tumbled into the room. Ronan gave the barrel a shove. It disappeared down the chute, and with a triumphant yell he hurled himself after it into the darkness.

  THE DWARF LANDS

  It is said that dwarves initially came unto the Western Lands during the First Age, led by three brothers. Each brother settled in a different place with his followers, who proclaimed him their king or, in the dwarf-tongue, their Tarse.

  The first brother, Thrombin, settled in the High Mountains, and so was known as the Mountain Tarse. The second brother, Rennin, chose the banks of the Great River as his domain, and thus did his followers call him the River Tarse. The third brother, who was named Acetylcholin, was by a good head the smallest. He settled on the shores of the Western Sea, and thus did they call him the Shore Tarse...

  THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY

  Carn Betw was originally a town built by men, but being situated where it was, it had become somewhat more cosmopolitan. Over the years, dwarves had moved in from the mountains that rise immediately to its west, as had elves from the Forest of Dreams to the east, and now the three races had lived here in harmony for so long that most of them thought of themselves not as dwarves, or elves, or men, but just as the people of Carn Betw.

  The town was built on an island, where the River Betw widened and slowed, and many folk earned their living by fishing its deep, productive waters. Others crossed the waters each day to work the fertile smallholdings that lined the riverbanks, or to ride the mile or two to the many vineyards that covered the foothills of the mountains.

  Late in the afternoon, a group of fishermen were mending their nets on the shore of the island, beneath the grey stone walls of the town. They were deep in conversation when one of them pointed a surprised finger at the river and cried, "Look!"

  A man was crawling from the water. A large, muscular man with black skin and long dark pleats of hair that hung like drowned snakes about his shoulders. He was gasping for air and seemed nearly spent. But it was not he who so surprised the fishermen; it was the barrel to which he had been clinging in the water. For it was singing to itself.

  The tallest of the fishermen made a sign in the air, to ward off the evil eye. " 'Tis surely enchanted," he exclaimed. "A singing barrel! Whoever heard of such a thing!"

  "My grand-sire spoke of wonders like this," answered one of his friends. "Have you not heard of the Chattering Boulder of Aethelbar, which poked fun at passers-by, and recited poetry backwards?"

  He paused, as the barrel was getting rather loud. It was warbling a rather off-key ditty about an elven girl called Kailey, who liked it twelve times daily. Exhaustedly, the large man hauled himself upright and dragged the barrel onto the shore. Then he turned and called to the fishermen.

  "I am Ronan," he said, "Please help me! I fear something has happened to my friend here!"

  Most of the fishermen turned away, pretending not to have heard. A half-drowned warrior who claimed to be friends with a talking barrel was not the sort of person they wanted to get mixed up with. But one, an elf called Bewel, stood and walked down the shore to the water-line, where Ronan was vainly trying to prise the lid of the barrel off with his bare fingers.

  "Let me," said Bewel, and taking his knife from his belt, he inserted it between the lid and the barrel sides, and twisted it. There was a creaking sound, the lid shot off, and a bedraggled and red-stained figure slowly straightened up from inside and stood smiling blearily at them. It was holding some sodden parchments to its chest.

  "Tarl," gasped Ronan, worriedly. "Are you hurt?"

  He reached out a hand, touched Tarl's arm, and looked at the red liquid on his fingers. Tarl followed his gaze.

  "S'alright," he slurred. "S'only red wine. Th'barrel was a quarter full with red wine."

  Ronan sighed with relief. "But why didn't you tell me," he said. "I could have emptied it!"

  "Exactly! The wine was the only reason I got in the klatting barrel in the first place!" Tarl hiccuped gently, and a slow but happy smile spread across his face.

  Bewel had been studying Ronan thoughtfully. "Good Ronan," he said, "are you that Ronan of whom I have heard travellers from the north speak? The warrior who seeks out and destroys all that is evil?"

  Ronan smiled. He was still young and inexperienced enough to get an immense buzz from being famous. "I do what I can," he said, trying (and totally failing) to sound cool and matter-of-fact.

  "But you are tired and hungry..... I will not weary you with questions now. My name is Bewel, and my father has a lodging-house in the town. You would be welcome to rest there tonight."

  "We have no money," said Ronan. He was dead beat, and the thought of a comfortable bed with cool sheets was immensely appealing, but he'd discovered that honesty was the best policy. It saved a lot of bother in the long run... threats, lawsuits, tears, climbing down knotted sheets, that sort of thing.

  "You would be our guests. But you could repay me, if you wish, with your advice. There is a matter that bothers me and some of my friends. Tomorrow, on the Feast-day of Saint Ufmir when no man works, we meet to decide how best to solve this thing. The advice of a renowned warrior such as yourself would be of immense help!"

  "You have a deal." Ronan looked down at Tarl, who had slumped over the side of the barrel and had started to snore. "Now, if you could help me with my friend here..."

  Bewel beckoned to the other fishermen, who ambled interestedly across. They folded a net into a makeshift hammock, which four of them held between them, and then with Tarl slung in this like a large and drunken salmon, they led Ronan up the shore and through the gates of the town.

  When Ronan w
oke next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. Its rays were streaming through the window of the tiny bedroom, warming the two scrolls that the warrior had spread out to dry on a little table the night before. He leapt out of bed and examined them worriedly. The wine stains were pretty bad, but some of the two charts could still be made out. On the whole, it could have been worse.

  The door opened, and Tarl wandered in, chewing on a large piece of bread. His hair was totally unkempt and his complexion would have made a zombie look healthy, but by his own disturbing parameters he was looking quite well. Ronan shook his head. He was amazed at Tarl's tolerance for alcohol. He knew damn well that if he'd drunk the best part of a quarter of a barrel of wine yesterday, right now his head would have been banging like an outhouse door.

  "Look what I've got," said Tarl, holding up the small leather-bound book that he'd "liberated" from Albran's castle.

  "What is it?" asked the warrior.

  "The Beginner's Guide to Magic," answered Tarl. "I found it in the Chart Room. I thought I'd see if Anthrax was right. I mean, you've seen what happens sometimes. It would be pretty smart if I did have the Power and could control it!"

  Ronan smiled. "You'll have to read it later," he said. "Right now, we're due to meet Bewel. Come on!"

  They hurried down the steep stairs, pausing to bid good morning to Bewel's mother, who was arranging flowers in a vase on the hall table. Outside, the narrow cobbled street was quiet, with just a few people sauntering along in the sunlight. To Tarl's surprise, everyone in sight appeared to be carrying a brightly coloured bucket.

  "Good morning," said Ronan to the first man they passed.

  "Good morning to you, good sirs," he replied, "And a happy feast-day!" And lifting up his bucket, he poured a stream of thick, lumpy, white stuff all over Tarl.

  The two friends stood there dumbfounded as the man strode off up the street, gaily whistling. Tarl grimaced as the glutinous gunge oozed down the inside of his shirt. "What the..." he began, and then stopped as an elderly woman approached. She too was holding a gaudy bucket.