Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  "The dirty old warlock!" said Tarl.

  "He deserves it, said Tyson. "He's set Nekros up for us. Now it's up to you and Ronan."

  "Me?"

  "Yeah. You've got The Power. Nekros said so."

  "No, I haven't! Well, maybe. OK, I might have. But I can't control it!"

  The book will show you how."

  "What book?"

  "The Book of Spells that you stole from the Castle of the Wood Elves. Anthrax said we won’t succeed without that."

  Tarl looked a little shifty. Things were coming to a pretty pass if you couldn't even borrow a book without some klatting wizard grassing on you to all your mates.

  "Oh, that thing!" he muttered. "It's crap. I tried to curse a sentry at Carn Betw. No effect at all."

  "Don't you believe it!" scoffed Puss. "If it was the Water Gate sentry, it worked OK! He'd made a right mess of his trousers. Smelt worse than you do!"

  "You're joking!" exclaimed the astonished Tarl. "You mean I can really do it?"

  "Too right," said Tyson, "and tomorrow you're going to find out just how powerful you are!"

  Tarl studied her laughing face, and then grabbed the wine-sack and took a long swallow. He had an awful feeling he wasn't going to enjoy the next day one little bit.

  The village stood waiting, as it had always stood, a tiny corner of a tiny land. Much had changed since Ronan left. The village hall had finally conceded defeat to gravity, and was just a pile of rotting timber. The well looked decidedly ill. Many of the huts had collapsed. And yet some still stood, and one or two new ones had been built. Those folk who had successfully fled from the Tribe of Fallon had painfully put their lives back together again. The village still lived, but only just.

  Ronan and his companions had been walking for three hours when they finally came to the village, and for most of the time Ronan and Tyson hadn't been talking. They had started by discussing their strategy, but then had come a major disagreement. Tyson wanted to be in at the kill beside her man, but Ronan was worried by Anthrax's predictions. The wizard had told him that he could prevail against Nekros, but no mention had been made of Tyson. Anything might happen. For instance, she might get killed. And so he flatly refused to have her come anywhere near his enemy.

  Tyson was stalking along the road wearing an expression that would have frozen lava. Behind her, Ronan was looking like a six-year-old who has just been sent to bed for giving his dinner to the cat. Behind them, Tarl was half embarrassed by the row and half scared crapless by what lay ahead. Only the donkey seemed happy, and that was mainly because it was fairly confident of getting a good square meal out of the forthcoming encounter.

  But when Ronan finally breasted a low rise and saw the huts of the village ahead of him, the argument was suddenly forgotten. He could feel a pricking at the back of his eyes, and he had a lump in his throat. Suddenly, he was scared to go on. Not because of Nekros, but because of the memories that crowded into his mind. Long summer days playing among the huts with the other village children. Cold winter nights huddled by the warmth of the fire as his mother read to him. Those searing days in the smithy at his father's side, learning to forge weapons. And, most painful of all, the night when the Tribe of Fallon had torn apart his life.

  Seeing the expression on his face, Tyson relented. Now he was looking like a six-year-old standing in the middle of a busy street who has just realised that his parents have disappeared. She gave his arm a squeeze of encouragement and Tarl stopped on his other side and offered him the wine-sack. Ronan shook his head. But then he remembered his father's image in the eerie blue flame of the campfire. Now, after five long years, he was only hours away from a revenge as sweet as honey. Suddenly he couldn't bear to wait. With a new determination he strode forward, and the others followed him.

  At first as they entered the village it appeared deserted. They paced slowly up the main street past the tumbledown huts and cottages, all of which seemed in desperate need of repair. There wasn't a sound to be heard, not even a Pakas. And then an old man came tottering out of one of the huts and nervously approached them. Tarl thought he'd never seen anyone so thin. His legs looked as though you could make fire by rubbing them together, and his arms were even skinnier. Tarl had seen healthier-looking skeletons. He was about to make some comment when he realised that Ronan was staring in awe at this vision, almost as though he had seen a ghost.

  The old man staggered up to them and stopped. "Greetings, noble strangers," he said in a voice that was surprisingly strong. "Welcome to our village. My name is Palin. If there is any way I can be of help to you..." His voice died away as he became aware of Ronan's rapt gaze, and he looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, almost any way..." he muttered.

  "Old Palin!" gasped Ronan. "The last time I saw you, you were pinned to the ground by an arrow! I thought you were dead!"

  "Pinned to the ground? Here, you're not one of them pillaging bastards, are you?"

  Ronan shook his head, and smiled. "I'm Ronan," he said. "I've come home."

  The old man looked at him unbelievingly, and then a slow smile crossed his face. "Young Ronan," he said. "By all the Gods, it is you!" He seized Ronan's hand and pumped it rapidly up and down. He was so frail that to Ronan it felt a bit like shaking hands with a piece of origami. "Just look at you", continued Palin. "Your father always said you'd make a warrior, but we never really believed him." He turned to the others. "He was such a skinny boy, you see. And weak! Just the effort of picking up a sword used to give him a nosebleed! Why, I can remember one day..."

  As the old man related his story, Ronan felt like cringing. Why was it, he wondered (like so many people before him), that when you brought a girl home for the first time, people had to start relating embarrassing stories about your childhood? "If he tells the one about the day my potty shattered" he thought, "and where they put the stitches, I shall have to leave."

  But luckily the old man suddenly stopped and struck himself on the forehead with one hand. "Listen to me," he cried, "wittering on about the past when you have travelled far to visit us! Come, rest awhile in my hut and tell me what has been happening to you!"

  As he led them across to one of the largest and least decrepit huts, Tyson grinned at Ronan. "So you weren't always such a hunk, eh?" she said.

  "I'll bet it was no different for you when you were young," said Ronan, a little uncomfortably. "I'll bet you were all pretty frocks, pony-tails and freckles!"

  "Don't you believe it," she answered. " I was the son my father never had, remember. Even when I was in my cot, I had a morning-star instead of a rattle." She smiled up at him, and gave his arm a squeeze as they entered the hut.

  The interior gave an impression of roominess, mainly because there was nothing inside it except a couple of shelves and, in one corner, a malodorous blanket. The donkey took one sniff, wrinkled its nose in disgust, and walked out again. Old Palin fussed about, taking some cracked mugs from a shelf and filling them with a sludge-brown liquid that he claimed was fresh water. Then he picked up a jar and offered it round. It held a number of pieces of straw, all about six inches long.

  "Cheese straw, anyone?" he asked.

  Tyson stared. It was just straw, plain and simple.

  "They're a bit light on the cheese," said Old Palin. "You have to use your imagination. Would you prefer a Twiglet?"

  He produced another jar, which contained a few bits of twig. Some of them still had leaves attached to them. Tyson took one and looked at it, horrified.

  "You actually eat these?" she asked in disbelief.

  "Not personally," replied Old Palin. "I can't chew them up any more." He grinned at them, and they saw that he only had the one tooth, which sat glowering in the centre of his lower gum like a moss-covered tombstone. "Occasionally I try and suck the goodness out of one. When I've got something to celebrate, like. But these are for visitors. Well, we heard a rumour someone was on their way. Mind you, we thought it was another of them marauding tribes. That's why the village is em
pty. They've all fled to the mountains for safety. They left me here to greet the marauders when they arrive. To shake their leader's hand, and that."

  "What good would that do?"

  "Well, I've got leprosy, you see. They were rather hoping I might pass it on."

  Ronan looked at the old man, then got up and walked to the door. He stood there looking out for a moment, and then turned back.

  "You are going to have visitors," he said. "The Tribe of Fallon. They'll be here soon. But don't worry. We're here to help you."

  "The Tribe of Fallon, you say. How many of them?"

  "About seventy."

  Old Palin looked at Tyson, then at Tarl, who had seated himself on the blanket and was busily finishing off the contents of the wine-sack. At that moment Puss the donkey wandered in again. Palin met its gaze and visibly blanched.

  "And you have a woman, a piss-head, and a small brown donkey." The old man paused for a moment. "Fine. Well, if you want me, I shall be up in the mountains. Good luck."

  With that he shot out of the door as though all the demons in hell were after him. Ronan watched him disappear up the road at a rate surprising for one so frail, and Tyson joined him and linked her arm through his.

  "OK, Muscles," she said, and all of a sudden he could hear the apprehension in her voice. "It's you, me and the Dead-beat Brothers here against seventy savage tribesmen. We'd better get ready."

  Ronan could feel the butterflies starting up in his stomach. He took a deep breath. He'd been confidently planning this moment for the last five years, but all of a sudden the odds didn't look too good. No. That was wrong.

  They looked klatting awful.

  Nekros was beginning to feel a little uneasy. He stood up in his stirrups and gazed across the rolling plains to the south. Nothing. Where the hell had Angnail got to? Presumably he was still waiting to ambush the black warrior at the Carn Betw ferry. But according to Anthrax, the guy was supposed to turn up there yesterday. So what had delayed him? Ah! Kaldis and Bonaponere must have caught up with him! Excellent! Yes, that would be it. It was a pity he couldn't find out for sure...

  Over the past few years Nekros had been operating at the hub of a communications network the like of which Midworld had never before seen, with agents in every town and city connected to him by Anthrax's crystal balls. Now all of a sudden he was stuck out in the wilds of Frundor without the faintest idea what was going on elsewhere. His own crystal ball had steadfastly refused to work properly ever since Anthrax's last message. Every time he tried to operate it, it just flashed up the words "Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible" in flowing Gothic script. He scowled at the heavy velvet bag hanging from his saddle in which it rested. He hated being cut off.

  The phrase "cut off" had unpleasant connotations for the rest of his tribe as well, but for different reasons. Their leader had become decidedly stroppy in the past week or two, ever since his plans had started going wrong, and a number of the tribe had had their heads cut off just because they had been handy when Nekros had flown into a rage. Originally, they had followed him mainly because his sorcery granted them a greatly extended life-span, but now, if you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, your life (and your body) was likely to be abruptly truncated, and the first faint murmurings of disquiet could be heard amongst the men.

  Nekros frowned and shifted restlessly on his horse. He had a feeling that something was wrong. It wasn't like Anthrax to be out in his predictions, and the latest instructions that the wizard had given him were a little puzzling. Take out some obscure little village, well yes, fair enough. His backers presumably had their reasons. But why had they told him to ride into the village with no more than twelve men? Presumably they knew what they were doing. But he didn't like it, didn't like it at all.

  Abruptly he shook his head, annoyed with himself. He was turning into a right old woman. The village hadn't been built which could harm him and twelve of his best men! But still, things had been going wrong lately... He swung round and hurled out his orders. Six bowmen and six swordsmen to ride with him, the rest of the tribe to remain here and follow them in ten minutes. Then feeling distinctly un-macho, he spurred his horse and galloped off, followed by his twelve chosen men.

  In Palin's hut, Ronan was watching Tarl, who was sitting cross-legged upon the floor breathing hard, with a sheen of sweat upon his face. A small fire was burning in front of him, and he held the Book of Spells open in one hand and Tyson's bloodstained sword in the other. On the fire rested a small copper dish on which was a hank of Angnail's greasy scalp, which Tyson had cut from him in readiness. A faint smell of singeing hair began to pervade the air, and Tarl leant forward and began to mutter the Words.

  The remaining members of the Tribe of Fallon waited to follow their leader. Some were milling about aimlessly on their horses, others had dismounted and were talking furiously. A rumour had swept through them that Angnail had seized his chance and had deserted, taking his men with him to search for richer and easier pickings down south.

  Suddenly, their horses began to skitter nervously as a figure appeared hovering in the air above them. It appeared to be a normal man clad all in black. He was hooded, and his head was bowed so that they could not see his features, yet there was an air of menace about him. Despite the fact that they were sixty strong, some of the Tribe shivered, and their horses skittered nervously. Then the figure threw back his hood and they could see that it was Angnail. His face was clearly visible and yet they could see through him, as though his flesh had no substance. His eyes were red and burned like coals, and when he raised one hand to point back where they had come from it was the fleshless hand of a skeleton. He opened his grinning mouth and spoke.

  "Look, lads, if I was you I wouldn't bother going on. It's not really safe. Why don't you just nip off home..."

  Suddenly his voice cut off with a yelp, and he was jerked backwards and disappeared with an audible pop.

  The tribesmen gaped, and looked at each other in wonder. What the hell was going on?

  Tarl was sweating heavily now. The hair on the copper plate was smoking and shrivelling, and fumes filled the hut. Angrily he spat out a few words and the wraith of Angnail materialised in front of him, seeming to dwarf him. He scowled furiously up at it.

  "What the hell are you playing at?" he demanded.

  The wraith seemed embarrassed.

  "Well, really," it blustered, "making me scare the crap out of my own tribe! That's a real bastard's trick, that is! I haven't been dead five minutes, and already you're calling my spirit up! Do this, do that! I mean, I haven't even found out what it's like being dead yet!"

  "Scare them?" asked Tarl in disbelief. "Scare them? You couldn't frighten a four-day-old kitten! I've been to bed with more frightening things than you!"

  "Look, I've never done this before, and...."

  "Listen, chummy," interrupted Tarl, nonchalantly twirling the Sword, "I've got the weapon that took your life, I've got a lock of your hair, and I've got the Power. This means that as far as you are concerned, what I say goes. Now if you don't want to spend the next five eons haunting some miserable ruined cottage in the middle of the Nevacom Plains you'd better get on with it. Comprenez?"

  The wraith seemed to go even paler, if that was possible, and looked quite sick. "Alright, alright! Keep your hair on!" it muttered, and then abruptly disappeared.

  The tribesmen were all discussing what Angnail's visitation might portend when he suddenly re-appeared above them. This time, however, he was about fifty feet high, and when he spoke his voice seemed to echo up from the depths of hell itself.

  "Go back!" he wailed. "All who enter the village will die! Go back whence we came!"

  And then the waxen flesh of his face seemed to melt, vanishing like lard upon a hot stove until just the skull was left. His eyes burned like fire, and his tongueless mouth opened wide, and white clouds of vapour billowed forth, freezing whatever they touched. And then he screamed, the sound of a mort
al soul in hellish torment.

  "Go back!"

  Suddenly the air was filled with foul wraiths and phantoms that soared and screamed and swooped and dived, grabbing for the tribesmen with skeletal hands as they struggled to control their rearing, terror-stricken horses. The putrid stench of rotten flesh made them gag and retch, and their ears rang with the clamour of demonic laughter and the screams of tortured souls.

  As one man they turned their horses to the east and fled, their pace not slowing until they reached the banks of the River Menea. And in every man's head was the same thought. Sod this for a game of soldiers. And sod Nekros. I'm going home!

  Angnail's wraith re-materialised inside the hut with a smug smile on what was left of its face.

  "Brilliant!" it enthused. "You should have seen 'em! They won't stop running until..."

  "Yeah, OK, you can bugger off now," muttered Tarl, tipping the remnants of charred hair into the fire.

  "You might at least say thank you," complained the wraith, as it vanished in a flare of flame.

  Tarl sighed heavily and began to struggle to his feet. His legs felt like rubber. Ronan was just helping him up when Tyson put her head through the door.

  "They're here!" she said. "Thirteen of them. It's show-time, folks!"

  She disappeared, and Tarl clapped Ronan tiredly on the arm.

  "Right, Nekros is all yours," he said. "Leave the rest to us. Oh, and don't forget the potion." And then he followed Tyson out, leaving Ronan standing nervously alone in the hut.

  They dismounted and tied their horses to the remnants of a fence, and then leaving two men to guard them Nekros led the other ten along the muddy track that was the main street of the village. It was deserted, and not a sound could be heard. The place seemed familiar, and Nekros was just beginning to wonder what on earth they were doing there when the silence was broken by a discordant off-key braying.

  Peering at them from behind a ramshackle hut was a shabby brown donkey. One of the bowmen fired an arrow at it but the donkey ducked, then stared scornfully at them and redoubled its efforts.