by Bibby, James
Ronan's mind was rapidly calculating and evaluating, and was trying not to panic but the last lightning-fast swipe of the scimitar had nearly got through.
He's good, you don't kill all those people by luck, there must be nearly a hundred bodies, there's loose skulls everywhere, he favours head shots, he's got firm ground under foot, we're treading on corpses, better give ground, lure him out a bit, he can be the one tripping over dead bodies, klat! that was close, Gods, he's so fast, the best I've ever faced, KLAT!!
The huge warrior smiled coldly, secure in the knowledge that he had the advantage. "All who dare to challenge the Guardian of the Sword have died!" he sneered, in a voice so deep it would have made Paul Robeson sound squeaky.
"Oh, yeah? Well, you can stick your sword up your ass and swivel, katimo!" gasped Ronan, as he readied himself for the murderous assault he knew was about to come.
The Guardian stared at him myopically for a moment with surprise etched on his massive face, all thoughts of attack forgotten.
"Klat! It's one of the brothers!" he said in amazement, "Hey! My man! Gimme five!" He held out a hand palm upwards, and Ronan rather dazedly slapped it and then turned his own hand over to receive the answering slap. "Am I glad to see you," continued the Guardian. "You know how long I've been stuck down here in this goddam Cavern? Five hundred years! That's why I didn't recognise you at first. My eyes ain't what they used to be! Do you know how much decent company I've had in all that time? I'll tell you. None! Zilch! The big zero! Though there's been plenty of uncool white guys trying to take the Sword off me. First there were all the stocky guys with the beards and the axes. Then there were the smelly little guys with the nasty personal habits. And not one of them bothered to pass the time of day. All they ever said was, "Gimme the sword, gimme the sword"! But hey, what's..." He stopped dead and his expression hardened. "Shoot!" he said. "Here comes another of those nasty little mothers now! Pardon me, but this will only take a moment."
Raising his wicked-looking scimitar he started to prowl forwards. Ronan turned and saw that he had his eyes fixed on Tarl, who had decided that, as the Guardian had taken a liking to Ronan, it was safe to come out of hiding and join them. From the look on his face, he was regretting that decision. Quickly, Ronan caught the Guardian by the arm.
"He's with me," he said.
The Guardian looked surprised. "Are you joking?" he asked doubtfully. Ronan shook his head. "That's cool," said the Guardian, lowering his sword. Tarl nearly collapsed with relief, and long crackling arcs of orange light started shooting out from his body.
The Guardian watched him with interest. "Hey! Righteous, man!" he grinned.
"So how did you get to be the Guardian of the Sword?" Ronan asked him.
"I answered an advert in the Situations Vacant column of the Ilex Times. It said: Smart warrior wanted. Must be self-motivated and able to work unsupervised. Steady work with long-term prospects. Uniform provided. Uniform? Ha! Look at these pants! " He looked enviously at Ronan's stylishly-cut warrior leather gear and laughed bitterly. "I reckon that guy Nekros suckered me good and proper!"
"Nekros?"
"Yeah, that's right. He's the guy that placed the Sword down here."
Ronan and Tarl looked at each other. "That makes Nekros at least five hundred years old," said Tarl. "I told you there was enchantment about."
"And he's got something to do with the Sword," replied Ronan, thoughtfully. "You don't hide a magical sword in a place like this with a guard to look after it unless you want to keep it well away from people. Nekros must be worried about it for some reason. This has got to be the Sword that my father mentioned!"
The Guardian was looking from one to the other, puzzled. "You know this guy Nekros?" he asked.
"You could say that," muttered Ronan. He frowned, and one hand crept up to fondle the ragged teddy-bear head that still hung at his chest. "He slaughtered my tribe and my father. I'm looking for vengeance and I need the Sword that you guard."
An embarrassed look crept across the face of the Guardian. "Aw, shoot!" he said wistfully. "I'd love to give you the mother, but Nekros put a powerful enchantment on me. If I let it go, something real nasty is gonna happen! I just can't do it."
Ronan nodded slowly. He'd been rather afraid that this might be the case. "Then I guess we have to fight."
"I guess," agreed the Guardian sadly.
"No, wait!" interjected Tarl, stepping between the two of them. "How long did Nekros tell you to guard the thing for?"
The Guardian thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said. "He was kinda vague. He just said my job was to guard it."
"So if the Sword isn't here any more, then your job's finished, and you could go home, right?"
"I guess so," said the Guardian, a little doubtfully.
"And what instructions did Nekros give you?" continued Tarl. "I mean, exactly what words did he use?"
There was a silence as the Guardian tried to remember the events of five hundred years previously. "Well," he said hesitantly, "he said that I must let no-one and nothing enter the Cavern of the Singing Sword. If anyone tried to do so, I must kill them."
"Well there you are then. We won't enter. We'll just wait here while you go in, fetch the sword, and bring it out to us. Then your job is over and you can get the hell out of here!"
The Guardian considered this. He was obviously tempted but still looked doubtful. Tarl put one hand on his shoulder (which meant standing on tip-toe), and lowered his voice.
"Look," he said beguilingly, "we know this Nekros. He's never going to come back. You could be stuck down here forever. And you should see the world outside these days. Take Welbug. There are restaurants, wine-bars, taverns, casinos... and there's a little place we know called the Dragon's Claw..."
His voice faded away. The Guardian looked at him, intrigued. "What's so special about this Dragon's Claw?" he asked. Tarl smiled.
"The women!" he said. There was a pause.
"The women?" said the Guardian, and in those two words could be heard the total loneliness of a life spent standing guard on your own in a cavern under a mountain in the middle of nowhere.
"Beautiful women," continued Tarl. "And we're very matey with the boss. If you go to the Dragon's Claw and say Ronan sent you, they will take you in, and they will look after you, nurture you, and cosset you. They will do anything you want. And I mean absolutely anything. Believe me. I know."
The Guardian stared at him for a moment and Tarl could see the hope burgeoning in his eyes. "OK," he said. "You want a sword, you got a sword!" Once again he and Ronan slapped hands, then he disappeared through the doorway.
Ronan and peered after him. Inside was a vast, high-roofed cavern that was bathed in an eerie blue light which seemed to come from nowhere. An odd pulsating tune could be heard that sounded like an invisible mellotron playing a very long way away. Had they come from any one of a number of parallel worlds, Tarl and Ronan might have instantly thought "Pink Floyd". And there, hanging from a golden hook set into the far wall, was The Sword. The Guardian stood in front of it. For a moment he hesitated, then he raised one hand and lifted it down, wincing as he did so. It was obvious that he half expected something to happen to him, but nothing did, and so he grabbed the scabbard that had been hanging beside the Sword, and hurried across the Cavern and out through the archway.
"Here it is!" he said, and handed the Sword to Ronan. The warrior hefted it in his hand. It was plain and unornamented, and rather smaller than the massive weapons he was used to, but it seemed to glow and pulse with some inner light. He suddenly realised that the distant music seemed to be coming from deep within it.
"Hey, it's singing!" he exclaimed.
"Huh!" said Tarl, unimpressed. "Dinosaur music!"
At this, the Sword suddenly went quiet. Ronan looked at it, a little worried. He had the distinct impression it was sulking.
"Listen," continued Tarl. You've got the Sword, now let's get the hell out of here!"
"Ye
ah," said the Guardian, looking round a trifle nervously, "before something nasty happens!"
Ronan smiled at him, and then brandished the Sword above his head in a fit of exhilaration. "Nothing will stop me now," he cried, and his voice echoed along the corridor. "Nekros, your doom approaches!" And then he slid the Sword into its scabbard, tossed the one from the dragon hoard carelessly through the archway of the Cavern and strode off down the passage. The Guardian followed and Tarl, still gently giving off sparks, brought up the rear.
They had little difficulty in deciphering the chart for this area, as it was relatively unaffected by wine-stains, and after climbing several staircases they found themselves marching along a broad stone passageway. It was obviously a road that was in occasional use as it was littered with discarded or broken items, and there were frequent unpleasant and distinctly smelly signs of the recent passage of orcs. However, Ronan was in no mood to feel in the slightest bit threatened by a bunch of degenerate and cannibalistic partygoers and strode boldly on. The Sword was for the most part silent now, although occasionally it seemed to be muttering grumpily to itself.
They continued for a mile or so then the passage bent to the right and they could see daylight ahead. They rounded a bend, and there in front of them was an open doorway. Tarl might have stopped and exclaimed in admiration at the skill with which long-dead dwarf stonemasons had carved the magnificent archway above this, the northern entrance to the city of Samoth. But he had other things on his mind. He was suddenly almost overwhelmed by a burst of claustrophobia and started to run. For most of his life, daylight had been something he liked to see fading as he got up and had breakfast before heading off to a party, but now, after the best part of two days in gloomy underground caverns, it seemed achingly attractive. He burst through the doorway ahead of the other two and stopped right on the edge of a precipitous drop, blinking in the bright sunshine and staring in wonder at the view that was spread out before him.
He was standing on a flat stone balcony hewn out of the cliff. To one side, a steep flight of steps wound tortuously down the side of the mountain. In front of him in the vale below he could see the River Betw winding its way westwards, and beyond it, soft green pasture-land rolled away to the north. In the very distance, he could just make out the snow-covered peaks of the Northern Mountains, and far away to the west, a distant shimmering blue marked the position of the sea. He sighed at the sheer beauty of it all, and then sat down with his legs dangling over the edge. Ronan walked up beside him, and stood staring into the distance, a small smile hovering on his lips. Behind them, the Guardian stood blinking in the unfamiliar daylight.
"Well, you've got all the things your father said you'd need. You just haven't got this Nekros," said Tarl.
"I know where to find him," said Ronan, softly.
"You do?"
"Yeah. Remember what Anthrax said to me about a cycle being circular?"
Tarl nodded. "I thought he was just talking a load of bollocks."
"No, he spoke the truth." Ronan pointed at the distant pastureland. "Over there, no more than a day's march away, is a quiet little land called Tak, and in Tak was the small village where this all began. The village where I grew up. When I reach there, I will have gone full circle. That's what the wizard meant. That is where I will find Nekros the Black."
Tarl looked out over the verdant scenery laid out below them like a map. He found it depressing, all this countryside. He ached for a nice smoky casino in the heart of a noisy great city. All at once he knew in his heart that it was time his path left Ronan's. He looked up at the big warrior, who was standing gazing at the view with a dreamy smile on his face. How the hell was he going to break the news?
Then, from somewhere down the mountain, came the scream of a terrified woman.
Ronan dashed down the winding stone steps that curved round the side of the mountain then skidded to a halt. Cowering on the ground in front of him was a beautiful young woman, and towering above her with axe upraised was a snarling cave-troll. Without a moment's hesitation Ronan drew the Singing Sword and leapt to her defence, but seconds later he found that he was almost wishing he hadn't bothered. The troll went straight onto the attack, its axe whirling lethally, and for the second time in a hour Ronan found himself faced by a phenomenally good opponent.
However, it had never fought anyone as skilled as Ronan before and seemed surprised when he managed to ward off its attack. For a moment it stared at the Sword, which was literally humming with excitement, and then it lunged forward again. But Ronan defended calmly, almost contentedly, for he had spotted a flaw. Three times the axe-blade whirled at his head, only to be deflected at the last second. Then, as it came at him a fourth time, Ronan struck, slicing upwards with the Sword. The axe whizzed past his head with a severed troll hand still clinging on to it, and then he struck again backhanded, and the Sword sliced cleanly through the troll's neck.
The young woman watched incredulously as the troll's body toppled forward and its head bounced off down the mountainside, and then she picked herself off the ground and flung herself sobbing into Ronan's arms. Awkwardly he stroked her flaxen hair, trying to sooth her. She looked up into his face and smiled, and he was struck almost dumb by her beauty. He felt her arms begin to encircle him, and then something whizzed past his shoulder, and he gasped in horror as a throwing-knife thudded home into her eye-socket. She gave a little gasp, then the colour drained from her face and she fell limply from his arms.
Swearing, he spun round, and was stunned to see Tarl still crouched in the follow-through of his throw, with the Guardian standing behind him. Uncomprehendingly he watched as his friend straightened up, walked down the steps and jerked his knife free.
"You pranny!" yelled Tarl. "What do you think you're playing at?" With his foot he kicked loose the needle-thin assassin's blade that was still held in the dead woman's hand. Ronan felt a chill like a small icicle melting run down his spine. The tip was stained dark with poison!
"That's Kaldis," Tarl continued, gesturing at the troll, "and this rather pretty young girl is Bonaponere. I saw them once, up in Orcville. They're two of the top hit men around. Or they were. Always worked as a team."
He stooped and wiped his knife clean on the grass. He was feeling angry. He'd played quite a lot of skeels during his life, but that eyeshot had probably been the best throw he'd ever done and he hadn't even had a bet on it.
"Thick as two short planks*, you are," he snapped at Ronan. "Hugging a snake like her! What the hell is Tyson going to say?"
Ronan blanched. This time the chill down his spine felt as though an entire glacier had melted. Tarl looked at him and shook his head.
"It's painfully obvious that without me around you're about as much use as a glass of milk at an orc party. Come on. We’ve got to get you to a show-down."
And without waiting to see if Ronan or the Guardian were following, Tarl set off down the stone steps towards the distant lands below.
*Very thick, as opposed to “thick as two short Plancks”, which means not at all thick, in fact, quite frighteningly intelligent. (The Planck twins were a pair of dwarves from Ilex who made incredible strides in the field of quantum mechanics.)
VENGEANCE
The tiny land of Tak, although virtually unknown outside Frundor, had until recently one main claim to fame. It was the scene of the Great Baylene Disaster, early in the Second Age. Baylene were, at that time, the world's most famous musical group, and their decision to stage an open-air concert in Tak one Midsummer Day resulted in the largest festival crowd the world had ever seen. The concert was spectacular, with lights, fireworks, and numerous other special effects, but the highlight of the show was to have been during their final song, when eleven Golden Dragons from the Eastern Wastes had been booked to perform an aerobatic act. This was reputedly the most incredible sight of the Age, with the massive dragons diving, rolling and swooping in perfect formation low over the heads of the crowd, their golden scales and jewelled wings
glittering and shining like a million tiny suns. Unfortunately, someone had forgotten to ask the dragons specifically not to breathe flame (which they habitually did when excited), and as a result, the largest out-door concert in history became the largest mass cremation...
THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY
The Tribe of Fallon was camped on the bank of the River Menea, in northern Frundor, awaiting a decision. The huge dark horses cropped at the sparse grass, while their riders bustled about impatiently, occasionally casting a wary eye at the black tent that was pitched in the centre of the camp. They were impatient because they knew they would be hanging around here until their leader had come to some sort of a decision. They were wary because they knew that to help him come to a decision he was messing around with his magic again, and that invariably meant he would be in a foul mood for the rest of the day. And when Nekros was in a foul mood, people suffered.
There was a sudden flash of light and a very small explosion from the direction of the tent, followed by the sound of Nekros's voice raised in loud and fervent cursing, Wisps of grey smoke began to eddy out through the tent flaps. The men of the tribe looked fearfully at each other, and a couple of the horses whinnied nervously. As usual, it sounded as though things were not going well on the magic front.
Inside the tent, Nekros was staring frustratedly at the small round crystal ball that sat on a little table in front of him. Beside it was a dish in which a burning wick floated in aromatic oil. In one hand he was holding a notebook that contained large numbers of spells and charms, all written in his small and rather untidy handwriting. In the other, he was holding a vial of grey powder, which he had just sprinkled over the flame. His face was blackened, smoke was slowly wafting from his hair, and his beard looked slightly singed around the edges. He turned his eyes to the notebook, and peered at it again. Klat! Why couldn't he write neatly? He always found it difficult to read his own spells. He could have sworn that word was Nitre! He peered at the crabby script. Maybe it was Nacre... Cursing again, he hurled the book from him in a fury. It was definitely one of those days.