by Bibby, James
"Good morning to you," she called to them. "Am I right in thinking that you are strangers in our fair city?"
"That we are, lady," replied Ronan.
"Then you must join us in our celebrations," she carolled, and Tarl blinked as once again a bucket full of white gunge was emptied over his head. "Happy feast-day, and may you enjoy your stay amongst us!" she bade them. Then she was trotting off up the street, leaving Tarl literally squirming with discomfort.
"Listen," he said bitterly to Ronan. "Don't talk to anyone. Don't smile at anyone. And if anyone comes near us, just punch their lights out before they can open their mouth. Old ladies, little kids, anyone! Got it?" And with that he turned and squelched off down the street, leaving a trail like a large and dispirited slug. Ronan followed, trying desperately not to laugh.
The Feast-day of Saint Ufmir the Unlucky at Carn Betw is surely one of the strangest and most curious of celebrations. The Pink Book of Ulay has this to say on the subject.
Born in Carn Betw, Ufmir the Unlucky was the first martyr of the Religious age. A deeply unlucky man for all of his short life, he was arrested one day for causing a breach of the peace after setting fire to a market stall by accidentally knocking over a paraffin lamp when a runaway oxen trod on his foot. On the day of his court case, however, he found himself on trial for heresy, when the presiding judge was given the wrong set of papers after an eagle had attacked the court usher in the gents washroom, causing him to drop the files for the day's cases. Ufmir was unable to point out this mistake, having lost his voice after a mix-up in a tavern had presented him with neat Aqua Regis instead of his usual dry martini, and his defence lawyer had not yet arrived, having been mugged and savagely beaten on his way to court by a pack of renegade nuns. As a result, Ufmir was sentenced to death.
The mistake was, of course, discovered, and a reprieve was awaiting him at the appointed place of execution. Unfortunately, Ufmir never arrived there. He attempted to escape on the way, and while being pursued through the kitchens of Carn Betw's largest restaurant, tripped over the head chef's pet vart, and fell head-first into a large vat of freshly-prepared mayonnaise. This would not have mattered, had it not been for the fact that an inexperienced commis-chef had turned on the wrong switch, and the mayonnaise had been steadily heating up, unnoticed, for the past hour. When Ufmir fell into it, it was boiling - and seconds later, so was he.
All this would probably have gone unnoticed but for the strange events at his funeral. Large crowds of maimed and injured people had gathered to watch the funeral procession and make sure that Ufmir really was dead, and the streets were thronged. The hearse was unable to make progress, and so his pallbearers decided to proceed on foot. Unluckily, all six had contracted Griffiths’ Syndrome, a highly infectious disease which afflicts the sufferer with temporary blindness when under stress. Unable to see clearly, they lost their way, stumbled along alleyways and through doors, and ended up blundering into a carpet warehouse. After barging around corridors and up staircases for half an hour they decided to stop for a rest, and thankfully lowered Ufmir's coffin onto a handy ledge. Unfortunately, this turned out to be a third-floor window-ledge. Ufmir and his coffin slid gracefully off and hurtled groundwards, landing with full force on the head of Lazlo the Lascivious, ruler of Carn Betw, and killing him stone dead.
As Lazlo was quite definitely the most hated ruler the town had ever known, the citizens were delighted, and an impromptu celebration broke out that lasted all day. Since then, Ufmir's memory has been venerated in the town by the Feast-day of Saint Ufmir, when they honour him by throwing large, gaily painted buckets of curdled mayonnaise over any stranger they meet.
Despite Tarl's instructions, he and Ronan were accosted three more times on their way to the tavern where they had arranged to meet Bewel. In each case, the person wished them a happy feast-day, took one look at Ronan, and emptied their bucket over Tarl. He couldn't say he really blamed them for picking him rather than the warrior, but even so, by the time they reached the tavern he was in such an ugly mood that the first person to speak to him was likely to have their head forcibly shoved inside their beer-glass.
Although Bewel had told Ronan that he hoped the meeting would be well attended and would last all morning, there were only two people still sitting with him, an elf and a man. From their faces it looked as though the meeting hadn't been a great success, but Bewel leapt up with a glad cry when he saw them enter.
"Ronan! I am glad you came!" he said. "These are my good friends, Megfal and Parvorchis." The elf and the man smiled and nodded, and Bewel called across to the tavern-owner. "Drongo, drinks all round, and a mayonnaise-brush for our friend here!" He grinned at Tarl. "I see you've been joining in with the festivities."
Tarl opened his mouth for a reply that would probably have been unprintable, but Ronan cut in hastily. "How did your meeting go," he asked, "and how can I advise you?"
The elf's face fell again and he shook his head tiredly. "We have a major problem in Carn Betw," he said. "but the townsfolk just ignore it. They hide their heads in the sand. But something must be done. You see, it's like this..."
For as long as anyone could remember, he told them, the dragon Philekazan had inhabited a system of caves high in the mountains to the northwest of Carn Betw. At first, his frequent visits to the town had caused no trouble. He was not a large dragon, being a mere twenty feet in length, and he was both young and friendly. In fact, he had been a positive boon as tourists had flocked to see him, bringing much wealth to the town. But more recently, as he matured, things had changed.
The dragon now came to the town about once a month for a night out. He would visit several taverns or wine-bars and then fly home. The trouble was, not only was he incredibly rich (for like all dragons, he had a vast hoard of treasure hidden in his lair), but he was also stunningly handsome and devastatingly charming. As a result, the young women of the town mobbed him, and every time he left, he took one of the prettiest with him. And no-one would ever see her again.
"We have never found out what happens to these girls," said Bewel. "Are they all living in the caves, a happy community of dragon groupies? Or does he use them and cast them out, to roam the world in their disgrace? Are they alive, even? When last he was here, I confronted him, but no answer would he give. I have to say he is utterly charming, and yet there is a hint of the dissolute about him and I trust him not. This sad waste of our women-folk must cease! But when we try to convince our neighbours that the dragon should be barred from the town, they refuse to listen. They are more interested in the money that he brings in than in the safety of our sisters. We must act, alone if needs be. But what should we do? You are a man of action. Advise us!"
The elf and his two friends were staring at Ronan with something akin to hero-worship, and he suddenly realised he was feeling hideously embarrassed. He cleared his throat and assumed what he hoped was a fierce, no-nonsense expression.
"If the dragon is harming these girls, then he is evil and deserves to die. So you must kill him."
"But how do we find out? And what if he isn't?"
"Well... erm..." Once again Ronan was faced with a moral dilemma. Good guys don't kill dragons that might quite possibly have a perfectly reasonable excuse. You need proof that they've been up to no good before you lop their heads off.
Tarl had at last managed to remove most traces of rancid mayo from his clothing and was watching Ronan's discomfiture with enjoyment. Now he decided to lend a hand.
"It's easy," he said. "You want to know what the dragon is up to in his lair? Then go there. If the girls are all right, you'll find them. If they aren't, you may find a clue. And you can always just sit there and refuse to budge until he comes clean. Easy."
To judge from the look on his face, Bewel found the idea of bearding the dragon in his own lair a little forbidding, and Ronan couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
"This is good advice," he said. "I would come with you, but I have my own quest and time is pre
ssing. This very afternoon I must leave and seek a way into Samoth..." He paused, as Bewel was staring at him excitedly.
"Samoth?" the elf repeated. "The ancient underground city of the Dwarves? But I know the way! I can lead you! Fifteen years ago, I was with my father when he was the guide for a group of dwarves who wished to re-colonise it. They were led by Pectin of Unch Haven. The southern entrance is but two hours ride from here."
Ronan began to say how grateful he would be, but the excited elf gabbled on.
"And of course, then you will be able to help us. Because the caves inside the entrance to Samoth are the very caves where the dragon lives! You can show us how to deal with Philekazan, and then proceed with your quest. We will meet you at my father's house at noon. Come, Parvorchis, Megfal, we have much to do to be ready in time!"
He leapt up, and after shaking Ronan's hand several times with great exuberance and thanking him over and over again, he dashed out, accompanied by his two friends.
Ronan stared after him, feeling vaguely out-manoeuvred. Ah, well, the dragon shouldn't be too much of a problem, and he was still on course for his quest. He realised that Tarl was looking at him with disbelief and held up his hands defensively.
"All right. All right, I'm sorry about the dragon. But he doesn't sound too bad. And at least we don't seem to have people trying to kill us any more. We should be able to slip out of Carn Betw quietly. We'll be perfectly safe."
Tarl didn't deign to reply, but merely sighed deeply and cast his eyes heavenwards. Orc ambushes, double-crossing wizards, nutty elven kings, and now a philandering dragon. This had to be some strange new usage of the word "safe".
When Nekros had been told of Ronan's escape from the Castle of the Wood elves, he had lost his temper. This had resulted in him decapitating two of his men and trashing his bedroom. Now, as his tribe prepared to ride west, he was sitting cross-legged in the fragments of his bed, trying to coax a crystal ball into working properly.
"So find him!" he yelled. The crystal fizzed and sputtered and the image faded for a moment. He thumped it hard and it flickered back into life. "Find him, follow him and kill him! Use Bonaponere or Kaldis, they live in Carn Betw!" There was a loud buzzing sound. The air filled with a horrid burning stench, and then the crystal went dark. Swearing, Nekros threw it hard at the wall and stormed out, pausing only to lop off the head of another of his men.
"I must stop doing that," he thought as he strode down the stairs. "If I get much more bad news, I'll be arriving in Port Raid at the head of an army of seven."
Ronan and Bewel strode purposefully down the main street towards the Water Gate, with a reluctant Tarl slouching along behind them. Unfortunately, they weren't getting much of a chance to slip out unnoticed. Bewel and his two friends had organised a bit of a demonstration. There were quite a lot of young people waving banners that said things like "Save our Sisters" and "Dragons Out of Carn Betw", and a number of holiday revellers had joined them, thinking that it must be some sort of festive parade. And so, although you couldn't say that the whole town was giving them a rousing send-off, there were quite a few people cheering and emptying buckets of white gunge over each other. One or two even threw flowers into the road. It was almost a hero's farewell.
Yet Tarl didn't notice. For, as he slouched along in the rear, he had his nose buried in the Beginner's Book of Spells. And he was riveted. He had opened it an hour ago, to take his mind off the huge flock of dragon-sized butterflies that had taken up residence in his stomach, and he had been immediately captivated. There were spells for just about everything. Spells to improve beer, spells to defend yourself, spells to guarantee good luck at the gaming table, spells to attract women... it could have been written with him in mind! He decided he'd try an experiment.
His opportunity came at the Water Gate. The others had already passed through and boarded the swan-like elven-boat moored at the quay. As Tarl went to follow them, a sentry rudely shoved him backwards.
"Here, where do you think you're going?" he sneered at Tarl.
"It's all right," called Bewel from the boat, "he is the friend of the warrior here!"
"What?" said the sentry, "This filthy little half-orc? Who'd have thought it!" Grudgingly, he lowered his halberd and let Tarl pass.
"Right, mate, you've asked for it!" thought Tarl. He could remember the words of the Spell of Mild Revenge that he'd just read, and so he muttered "May your innards liquefy and your bowels turn to water!", followed by the Word of Power that the book listed. Then he stared at the sentry expectantly. The sentry just stared blankly and stonily into space.
"Huh!" thought Tarl, disappointedly, as he followed the others into the boat. "So much for having the Power!"
He would have been much happier if he had known that the reason the sentry was staring blankly and stonily into space was because something unpleasant and extremely messy had just happened inside his underwear, and he was wondering what the hell the sergeant would do to him when he found out that he'd shit himself while on duty.
The first stages of their journey to the dragon's lair passed pleasantly enough. On disembarking from the boat, they found horses waiting for them at a riverside farm. As they rode northwest through rolling farmland and gently sloping vineyards they talked and sang. For Bewel this was a great adventure, and he listened open-mouthed in wonder as Ronan and Tarl told him stories of far-off places, of days spent tracking down rogue trolls in the Northern Mountains, or of nights spent literally dicing with death in the casinos of Orcville.
By the time they left the cultivated areas behind them, Tarl was in a rare good mood. Few things cheered him up more than a captive audience. He began to teach his companions all seventeen verses of Kailey, the song he'd been singing when they let him out of the barrel, and the sound of three young voices raised in ribald song echoed around the mountains. But then, as the path climbed even higher, and the green grass and pretty wildflowers gave way to barren, cracked rock and tumbled boulders, their voices fell away uncertainly.
After a while, Tarl reined in his horse to look at the view behind them. They were very high now, and although the mountains hemmed them in on three sides, to the east the land was spread out like a tablecloth below. Carn Betw looked like an anthill in the middle of the thin thread of silver that was the River Betw. Beyond it, the Forest of Pigeons spread out, separated from the Forest of Dreams in the distance by the strip of cultivated lands through which ran the Southern Highway. Sighing, he turned and urged his horse on after the others.
All at once, the narrow path breasted a rise in the ground, and led them into a shallow barren valley running from northeast to south-west. Through it an ancient road ran as straight as a die. It was cracked and broken, with tufts of Pata grass growing through it, yet the craftsmanship and skill that had gone into its construction could still be plainly seen.
"This is the ancient road that ran from Unch Haven to Samoth," said Bewel. "We have not far to go now." But when he urged his horse forwards it dug in its hooves and neighed skittishly.
"He scents the dragon," said Ronan. His own mount was snorting nervously and the whites of its eyes were plain to see. "We had best leave them here", he continued, and dismounted.
They hobbled the horses, leaving them chewing unhappily at the clumps of pata, and carried on foot. Although the valley began to slope steeply upwards, the even surface of the road made walking easy and they made good time. It was less than half an hour before the road led them around a spur of the mountain, and they found themselves looking up to the entrance of the dragon's cave.
It was plain to see that once this had been the gateway to some mighty underground city. The vast archway above was carved into beautiful designs, at the heart of which were the stylised shapes of the four tools of the dwarf; hammer, axe, chisel, and adze. All were inlaid with both light and dark marble, which glittered in the afternoon sun. At the sides of the entrance, huge hinges the size of a man were carved from the living stone, but of the doors ther
e was no trace. They had been shattered into fragments by some arcane black mage-spell long ago, during the Siege of Samoth. Now, the gaping maw of the cave was open to the valley. A thin plume of smoke eddied out and a small trickle of water splashed over the rim, wetting the wide but graceful semi-circular steps that led down to the road.
Tarl looked up at the vast portal uneasily. He was suddenly aware that there was neither sight nor sound of any living creature in the valley save themselves. The silence was broken only by their footsteps and by the trickle of water. He turned to Bewel.
"Are you sure this dragon is friendly?" he asked. The elf nodded, but doubtfully. He seemed ill at ease. Only Ronan was unaffected by the air of menace that seemed to hang over them.
"Come on," he said, "it's only a dragon!" And climbing the steps he strode into the blackness, with the others following nervously behind.
Back down the ancient road, their horses were being examined by a couple of very unpleasant characters.
"The elf has left most of his gear," said the first one. "Looks like he'll be coming back. The other two must be heading through Samoth. Excellent! This will be easy. They won't know what hit them. Come on, Kaldis."
And with that Bonaponere and Kaldis strode down the road in pursuit of Ronan and his friends.
Jeremy, the Beadle of Carn Betw, loved the Feast day of Saint Ufmir. Every year, as soon as dawn had broken, he would be out stalking the streets with keen anticipation, bucket in hand, searching for strangers. But then, Jeremy was that type of person. Whenever he was about, people who smoked would find their pipes exploding, or emitting evil-smelling black fumes. Stink bombs would go off, and folk would find themselves sitting on drawing pins. Itching-powder would mysteriously appear in new shirts, and buckets of water would be propped on top of doors. And everyone who visited the latrines would have to check them out very, very carefully indeed. Jeremy just knew that he had a wonderful sense of humour and that people loved him for it. Unfortunately, everyone else just knew that he was a thorough-going pain in the arse and that they loathed him.