Ronan the Barbarian
Page 22
"Stop your ears with this," he yelled, handing Tarl two strips of cloth torn from his shirt. He had already blocked his own with other strips. Dazedly, Tarl jammed the wads of material in place while Ronan quickly lit another torch. By its light he could see that they were at a crossroads. Three of the tunnels had a cloying, unpleasant feel about them, but the fourth sloped upwards, and cool air wafted from it. Ronan dragged Tarl into it and hustled him along as fast as he could, away from the hypnotic beat. Faster and still faster they ran, and as they ran Tarl slowly emerged from his trance, shaking his head as if to rid it of the persistent rhythm that echoed down the corridor behind them.
After a while, Tarl could run no further. He felt as though he had covered several leagues, although it was probably no more than a mile, and he collapsed against the wall. Ronan turned, and seeing him slumped there, ran back. He paused, sword in hand, and listened carefully, but the music was distant now and could hardly be heard above Tarl's laboured breathing. There was no sound of any pursuit. Gently, he helped his friend to rise and supported him as he limped on down the road.
They stopped after a further half-mile, when the music had completely faded away. The tunnel had been sloping gently upwards for a while now and had increased in both width and height, and although they had passed several intersecting corridors, there had been no large caverns or rooms.
Tarl sat down on a long low slab of carved stone that looked like a doorstep and leant against the wall. He waited patiently while Ronan opened the pack and handed him a loaf of dry bread and their last water bottle.
"Thanks," said Tarl. "That was a bit too close for comfort! For a moment there, I thought I was going to end up like those dwarves!"
"I've heard of orcs and their foul parties," said Ronan, "but never have I heard of such a one as that!"
"Oh, they used to tell some tales back in Orcville," answered Tarl. "City orcs aren't so bad, but mountain orcs are another story." He tore a chunk of bread off the loaf and handed it back to Ronan. "I wonder where we are," he added.
"I can tell you exactly where we are," muttered Ronan, who was now staring at the map. "We're lost."
Tarl unstoppered the water bottle and sniffed at it disparagingly. "By the Gods, I'm thirsty!" he said, and at that very instant there was a loud "crack" from the wall behind him that echoed along the passage. Tarl jumped, and looked round.
"Here," he said. "Where did that come from?" For in the wall above the step-like stone, the outline of two vast doors had appeared. He stood aside and allowed Ronan to examine them, but no matter what the warrior did, he could not get the doors to open. It was as though someone had painted the hair-thin outlines on solid rock. Eventually he tried thumping them in frustration with his fist, but that just hurt.
Tarl watched sympathetically for a while, then raised the water bottle and sipped. He grimaced. He didn't think he'd ever get used to the taste.
"I could do with a real drink," he said. As if these words were a signal, the hair-thin crack slowly but smoothly widened, and two massive stone doors gently swung open to reveal a room beyond. For a moment the two travellers stared, and then lifting their torches they stepped inside.
It had clearly been a tavern long ago, although they could tell from the undisturbed layer of dust on everything that no-one had been here for years. There were marble-topped tables with beautiful wrought-iron legs, and elegant but inviting chairs plumply upholstered with leather. Along one side of the room was a spear-board alley, and on the other side ran a lane for skittles. There were also tables for shove-tablon and for bar-bastard. The floor was tessellated in strangely restful patterns, and on the walls were framed posters and cartoons, nearly all of which were either interesting or humorous. The bar itself ran the full length of the far wall and seemed somehow to beckon. It was of carved stone and was one with the floor, with an iron footrest running along its base.
It was probably the most wonderful room that Tarl had ever entered. He couldn't have said why it was wonderful, any more than he could have said why he found certain faces beautiful. It was just a combination of unremarkable and separate features which, when viewed as a whole, suddenly came together as something special. The place seemed almost to speak to him, seemed to promise that here you would find friends, here you could talk, or laugh, or read, or do whatever you felt like, and do it with a mug of the best beer in the world at your elbow.
He walked slowly forward, almost in a dream, and leant on the bar. Most of it would have been a fraction too low for him, having been designed with the comfort of dwarves in mind, but a small section was higher, for the benefit of the occasional human visitor like himself, and as soon as he leant there, it felt as though his body had merged with the bar. He could have stood there all night. He looked up, and his eyes fell upon a carved sign above the bar. It said simply "The Stonemason's Arms".
"I don't believe it!" he whispered reverently, half to himself, half to Ronan. "We've only gone and found the Lost Dwarfish Pub of Legend!"
The Pink Book of Ulay has a tendency to exaggeration. At times, it makes books such as "The Autobiography of Tarl, the Hero of Welbug", or "A Loser's Guide to Marriage (and how to survive it)" by Maxon the Small, seem positively sober and well balanced. However, on the subject of The Lost Dwarfish Pub of Legend it is, if popular folk-law is to be believed, completely accurate...
Ah! The Stonemason's Arms! The Stonemason's Arms! Where never was a man served out of turn, yet never did he have to wait for serving! Where never did the landlord call you "squire" or "chief", but always by your first and given name! Where never was the customer short-changed, nor was his change left lying in pools of beer upon the counter top! Where never was the toilet blocked, hot water absent, and the cold tap wont to soak your pants with gouts of freezing water! Where always was there soap to wash your hands, and fluffy towels as well! Where strangers told you interesting tales, and never was a boring story heard! Where never did the ale taste sour or fizzy, and yet was it always fair and justly priced! And such ale! Such beers! Rangvald's Mild, or Mithril Stout, or Gobbo's Pearly Light! Never shall we see their kind again...
Rumours that the editor of the Pink Book of Ulay received a lifetime of free drinking in the Stonemason's Arms as a result of the above passage are no doubt false. In the interests of fairness we did attempt to contact him, but were unable to do so. His secretary informed us that he has been continuously as pissed as a vart for the past eighteen years.
Ronan spread the wine-stained chart out on the bar, and excitedly traced along it with his finger. There were only four or five inns shown on it, and all were fairly close to the Cavern of the Singing Sword! Surely he could work out where they were now! He turned to Tarl, but it was clear that he wasn't interested. He had gone behind the bar and was gently stroking the fittings with the expression of someone who has stumbled upon paradise.
In fact, for Tarl the word paradise was pretty close to the truth. If at any time in the recent past he had been asked to devote his life to some sort of holy or noble Quest searching for some lost or fabled object, it is almost certain that he would have ignored Grails and all such pointless objects, and settled upon a Quest for the Lost Dwarfish Pub. And now, before he had even contemplated such a quest, he had completed it! He wandered slowly along behind the bar, dazedly reading the legendary names of ancient ales, and then stopped at one of the taps. Spleenwort's Ichor Ale! Wow! Stories of the deadly effects of that brew had been passed down from father to son for generations! Old Spleenwort the Brewer had taken the formula to the grave with him, which was probably just as well considering the huge numbers of people the brew itself had taken to the grave. What was the old saying? 'One and you're anybody's, two and you're everybody's, three and you're just a body.' What a shame he'd never be able to taste the brew!
Smiling, he idly played with the tap. There was a hiss of air, and a dark brown liquid started to trickle forth. Tarl stared, unbelieving, then snatched a dusty mug from under the bar and fill
ed it.
"By the Five Great Demons!" he thought. "This place has been abandoned for hundreds of years and yet the beer still pours!" In a way it was rather a pity. He would have loved to have sipped it, just so he could tell people that he'd actually sampled a pint of Spleenwort's Ichor, but the ale would have turned to vinegar after all this time. Tasting it would be rather like seeing an old but famous ex-champion warrior hacking his way round in the lower reaches of some non-league tournament, a pathetic shadow of his former self. Gingerly, he sniffed it. It seemed to smell OK, and so, gritting his teeth and hardly daring to hope, he raised the mug to his lips and sipped.
And immediately spat it out. Sadly, it tasted like a mixture of concentrated acetic acid, cabbage water, and fresh orc-dung. Tarl was strongly reminded of a pint of Whitebeard's Flagon that he'd once been rash enough to drink. He sighed and wandered along to Ronan, who was still pouring over the chart.
The warrior hadn't got too far, as he still couldn't work out which of several taverns was the Stonemason's Arms.
"The problem is," he explained, "they aren't named on the map. Look! Tavern." He stabbed at the chart with a finger, by way of illustration, and then pointed again an inch away. "Tavern. And here, look. Tavern. There's too many of them!"
Tarl looked at the chart and said, "That's where we are. That one, there."
Ronan peered at where Tarl's finger was pointing. "How do you know?" he asked. "It just says, the tavern."
"Not the tavern," said Tarl. "THE tavern. Change of emphasis. It has to be that one, it's the only one with a "the" in front of it. I've been to loads of inns and taverns in my life, and believe me, this is THE tavern!"
Ronan stared at the chart again with a new excitement. "If you're right," he said, "then we're almost there! We just go down two levels, cross the Bridge of Eldabad, and that's it!" Hastily, he folded the chart and stuffed it into the pack, and then picking up his torch he strode to the doors. Regretfully, Tarl followed him, but as the warrior was about to stride off down the main passageway he caught him by the arm.
"Listen," he said, indicating the massive stone doors standing invitingly open. "We can't leave it like this! You know what orcs and trolls are like! One good party and the place would be ruined! It needs to be preserved! One day, it should be opened to the people, as a sort of museum! A shrine, even! I know folk who would walk a hundred miles just to see it!"
Ronan shrugged, then got hold of one of the doors and pulled. Again, nothing he did could budge it.
Tarl gestured for him to stop. "Look," he said, frowning, "I reckon those doors opened when I said the magic words, I could do with a drink, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so," replied Ronan.
"OK, then, surely there must be some equivalent phrase that will shut them!"
Ronan considered this and nodded. Tarl sank into thought for a few moments, and then suddenly he smiled. "Goodnight, all!" he called, and the doors swung silently together, closing so tightly that it was impossible to find even the faintest of cracks to mark where they had been. Expecting some word of praise, he turned back to the warrior, but Ronan was already striding off down the passage. Sadly, Tarl caressed the stone wall.
"I'll be back," he murmured reverently to the invisible doors. "Just trust me. I'll be back. And, one day, you'll open again." And then he was scampering after Ronan.
The warrior was setting a fierce pace and it was all Tarl could do to keep up. Reaching the first junction, he turned right, strode down a narrow dark corridor, and then ducked through an opening. A spiral staircase led downwards and he followed it, taking the stairs two or three at a time in his haste, with Tarl struggling to keep up. His heart was beating rapidly and he felt a massive surge of anticipation, for suddenly he felt as though he was almost there.
Since seeing the vision of his father eight or nine days before, he had been searching for the three items mentioned in the rhyme. Two he had attained, and the third one, the Sword of Myth, was within reach. Excitement filled him at the thought of successfully completing his quest and he laughed aloud with pleasure. All at once the tunnels no longer seemed claustrophobic and threatening, but oddly cheerful and welcoming.
Reaching the base of the staircase he emerged into a large cavern and stopped dead. The walls around him were sparkling with a strange greenish glow and the air seemed charged. The floor was split into two by a seemingly bottomless ravine, in which the sound of rushing water could be heard far, far below. The thirty-foot wide gap was bridged by a graceful arch of stone barely one foot wide. There was no other way across.
"Here," gasped Tarl breathlessly as he staggered into the cavern. "What's the hurry?"
Ronan looked at him with interest. Tarl's hair was standing on end and a thousand tiny points of light were scurrying up and down his body like ants. The air around him was crackling and popping like firecrackers heard from half a mile away. He stared at the rock bridge with horror.
"I'm not crossing that!" he exclaimed, and as he flung out one hand and pointed, the little beads of light rushed along his arms, merged, and exploded from his finger-tips as one big fireball which whooshed across the cavern, missing the bridge by inches and blowing a big chunk out of the stone edge of the ravine.
There was a silence broken only by the distant sound of rock fragments plunging into water far below then Tarl clicked his fingers.
"Got it!" He looked round at the green-glowing walls. "We must be in the middle of a seam of Mage-stone! I'd better get out of here before I explode!"
Ronan threw him a look of fury. "You nearly blew up the bridge, you pranny," he yelled, shaking the chart in Tarl's face. "This is the Bridge of Eldabad, according to the chart. And do you know what is just on the other side? The Cavern of the Singing Sword, that's what!" And so saying, he dashed across the narrow rock bridge without hesitating.
Tarl stared in horror. He found this habit of rushing headlong into danger highly questionable. Personally, if he had to die (and he was hoping to find some way of avoiding this) he would prefer to die at an advanced old age, in bed. Hopefully, someone else's bed. Then he realised that more of the whirling points of light were collecting about the extremities of his body and that a strange orange glow was emanating from his groin.
"Klat! I'd better get out of here!" he muttered, and screwing his face up into an ugly snarl of determination he dashed across the bridge. Cold air seemed to well up from the depths of the abyss and a wave of vertigo swept over him, then he was across and rushing after Ronan.
The cavern narrowed into a wide passageway that Ronan was striding along impatiently. Tarl dashed after him and managed to catch him just before he came to a T-junction.
"Ronan!" he hissed. "Klat, guy, slow down a minute!"
The warrior stopped. "What is it," he snapped impatiently.
"Look," replied Tarl. "That was the Bridge of Eldabad back there, right? And we know from that Dwarf's diary that orcs have been round these parts."
"So what?"
"So orcs aren't going to miss out on some marvellous sword that is just lying around in a cave, are they? Either they've found it and stolen it, or else it must be...protected."
The impatience on Ronan's face died away, to be replaced by a thoughtful look. "How do you mean, protected?"
"I don't know." Tarl shrugged, and gestured very, very carefully at the glowing green walls. "Magic, or something like that. I mean, we are in the middle of a seam of mage-stone. If we are seriously discussing a sword with vocal capabilities, then this is major league enchantment we're dealing with." He paused and shrugged. "I've got a feeling that there's something unpleasant round the corner, that's all."
Ronan looked at him thoughtfully. He'd learned to trust his friend's judgement by now. Tarl had turned scenting danger into an art form. On the other hand...
"Bollocks to that!" he scoffed, and drawing his sword he strode round the corner and found himself fighting desperately for his very life.
Bonaponere was sitting on a piec
e of broken column in a massive hall carved out of the living rock, waiting for Kaldis to return from scouting ahead, when a group of twelve orcs came swaggering in. For a moment they paused and stared, then their leader drew his barbed knife and fingered its point lovingly.
"Well boys," he snarled, "looks like this is our lucky day. Let's have some fun."
Bonaponere returned their gaze coolly and for a moment they faltered. Then Kaldis emerged from an archway behind them, axe in hand. As they turned to face him he blurred into motion. For a few seconds screams echoed around the lofty columns of the hall, and then Kaldis stood alone in the middle of a mass of quivering flesh and spouting blood. He smiled with satisfaction and licked his axe-blade clean.
"I like this place," he said to Bonaponere. "It's fun!"
"Any sign of the black warrior?"
"His trail goes down into the orc caves."
"Then we'll wait at the north gates. Who knows, we might find some other travellers to... enjoy. Come on."
The fearsome warrior was huge, at least a head taller than Ronan, and his skin was jet black. He was wearing only voluminous silk shalwar, and his thick arms and massive bare chest were so powerfully muscled that he made Ronan look as though he had been pining and refusing food for several weeks. His shaven head gleamed in the eerie light, and his enormous scimitar whirled in front of him almost too fast for the eye to follow. Only by using every last vestige of his skill and concentration could Ronan keep him at bay.
The floor of the passage was littered with the proof of his fighting prowess - dozens of broken and crumpled bodies in various stages of decomposition. Severed skulls lay amongst the bodies like discarded, misshapen footballs. Behind the huge warrior was an arched doorway through which pulsed an eerie blue light. With the shining green of the mage-stone in the passage walls it gave the strange impression that they were fighting under water.