Ronan the Barbarian

by Bibby, James

  "Karl, Velham, deal with that... noise," ordered Nekros, and the two swordsmen drew their swords and walked purposefully after the donkey, which hastily withdrew round the corner. Smiling in anticipation they followed, while Nekros led the rest of his men towards the centre of the village.

  The donkey had retreated to the next hut along. Karl gestured to the right. "You go that way," he said to Velham. "I'll go this. We'll trap it."

  Velham nodded and strode to the opposite corner of the hut. As he walked round to the back he heard a small whimper that was cut off abruptly by a quick crunching noise. "Klat!" he thought. "Too late!" Shame. You couldn't mistake the distinctive sound made by something slicing through bone, and he had been looking forward to carving up that donkey. Still, maybe it wasn't dead yet. He jogged round the corner and screeched to a halt.

  There on the ground right in front of him was Karl, with his sword arm sheared off at the elbow and his throat bitten clean through. And standing over him was the donkey, with blood all over its muzzle and something unpleasantly pink and stringy hanging out of its mouth. It looked up at Velham and its eyes seemed to blaze, and then it was leaping for his throat.

  Velham opened his mouth and screamed.

  Brogan stroked his horse and wished, not for the first time, that he had been picked to go with Angnail. He was damn sure that the guy had buggered off south with his men. Angnail had the right ideas. He'd never been in favour of this raiding of poverty-stricken villages. He went for loot, for gold and silver. That was the way to do it, by Brogan's reckoning. He wasn't as keen as some of his fellows on all this killing, and was quite relieved to have been made one of the horses' guards.

  A sudden scream tore the air, and then died away in a horrid bubbling gurgle. Brogan stared towards the village. Sounded like the guys were at it again. He turned to say something to Haglad, the other guard, but was surprised to see he was draped over the fence, as though asleep. Klat! There was an arrow in his neck! Brogan opened his mouth to yell a warning to the others, and Tyson's second arrow went straight between his lips and burst through the back of his throat, killing him instantly.

  Tyson wriggled out from the shadows of a collapsed hut and smiled to herself. Four down, eight to go. And then it would be up to Ronan.

  Nekros had sent three of his men to search the eastern end of the village, and three to the west. He was standing in the deserted village square with the other two when the scream rang out. That in itself wouldn't have alarmed him, as screams of agony were fairly commonplace wherever his men went. But he was sure he had heard the soft twang of a bow shortly afterwards, and it sounded lighter than the bows his men carried.

  Better be careful! Cautiously, he searched his memory for the words of a Spell of Searching, but as he muttered it he became aware that there was another magic force nearby. A very amateurish and shaky force, to be sure, but strong enough to resist his spell. He reached up and gently touched the Torque about his neck as if for reassurance.

  What the hell was going on?

  Tarl sat cross-legged on the open ground in front of a large but empty pigsty at the eastern edge of the village. In front of him was the copper dish, which now contained a violet powder. In his left hand he held a jug of pig's blood poised over the powder. In his right hand he held the Book. His lips were moving as he practised the words that he had to say, and his chest was moving under the impetus of a heart that was beating so rapidly that it threatened to burst through his rib cage.

  Three men came in to view at the end of the street. As soon as they saw him one lifted a bow, but a second stopped him with an unpleasant smile, and drew his sword. Apparently Tarl was harmless enough to provide them with some entertainment.

  As they strode towards him Tarl thought he was going to be sick with fear. What if he screwed it up? The impulse to scramble to his feet and run was almost overpowering, but somehow he fought it down. Then with trembling hand he poured the pig's blood onto the powder and spoke the Words.

  Rogarth was highly pissed off with this village. He and his two companions had searched virtually the whole of the western side but hadn't found a single peasant, and Rogarth had a very low boredom threshold. Moodily he swung his viciously-barbed sword, relishing the hissing sound it made as its razor-sharp edge cut through the air. If he didn't find someone to lacerate soon he was going to have to pick a fight with one of the other two...

  And then the slight figure of a young woman stepped out from a doorway. Rogarth couldn't believe his eyes. This was like something out of his dreams! She was slender, pretty, and was holding a sword. Oh, yes! True, she was about twenty or so, which was several years older than he liked them, but still, she was going to be an absolute joy to carve up. Licking his lips, Rogarth motioned to the other two to stay back. She was his! He took one pace forwards, and then something cannoned into his legs from the back, and the most god-awful screaming horrible pain tore through both of his calves...

  Tyson glided past the hamstrung Rogarth, leaving him to Puss's tender mercies, and attacked the other two. They were both rooted to the spot by the sheer surprise of the donkey's attack and she was able to kill the first one with a single thrust. The second man made a quick recovery and was a skilled swordsman, but even so it was only seconds before she was able to open his throat with a neat backhand cut. She was surprised to find that Puss hadn't dispatched the ham-strung man but was standing there watching his death-throes with evident enjoyment. She grimaced and finished him quickly with a single thrust.

  "You're getting to be as bad as they are," she admonished the donkey.

  It looked at her steadily. "You really wouldn't have liked his thoughts," it said. "Very unpleasant. He should have had more respect."

  She returned its stare, and suddenly she could have sworn that Puss was embarrassed. It shuffled its hooves and turned away.

  "Well," it mumbled, "I'd better go and make sure that bollock-brain hasn't turned himself into a cabbage." And with that it was trotting rapidly towards the other end of the village in search of Tarl.

  Ronan stood in the large empty hut grasping the hilt of the Sword. He was a little worried. He'd taken it out of the scabbard a few times since the previous day's fight at the ferry, and each time it had behaved rather oddly. Triumphant singing and chanting had been interspersed with funereal dirges, strange crooning, and a lot of indecipherable muttering. Sometimes it would suddenly clam up, and once it seemed to be sobbing desperately. Ronan was beginning to think it was a bit deranged, and he'd discovered that the one thing that really saps your confidence is going into battle with a Singing Sword that is two arrows short of a quiver.

  Taking a deep breath he drew it out, and was relieved to see that it was gleaming brightly and emitting a steady eager humming. As he watched the brightness increased and the humming grew louder and more eager. Nekros must be close!

  Ronan pulled Anthrax's potion from his pocket and jerked the ring-pull loose. It opened with a slight "pop", and liquid foamed out all over his hands. Quickly he raised the can to his lips and drained the contents. It tasted foul and he could feel it foaming and bubbling all the way down to his stomach.

  He strode to the door and peered out. There, stalking warily down the street outside with two of his tribesmen was his mortal enemy!

  With rapidly-beating heart and heavily-frothing stomach Ronan waited for his moment.

  Puss trotted round the corner and sighed with relief. There was Tarl, most definitely alive to judge by the energetic way he was throwing up the contents of his stomach. Puss trotted across and, carefully avoiding the unpleasant bits, nuzzled his side.

  After a short while Tarl straightened up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he gave Puss a shaky pat.

  "So it worked then," said the donkey, impressed despite himself.

  "Yeah," said Tarl proudly. "It worked. I can actually do it. Transformations 'R' Us."

  And the two of them gazed at the pigsty where three large and very pink pigs
dressed in black warrior gear were happily arguing over who should get the muddy patch.

  Nekros had just decided that maybe the village was deserted after all when there was a brief clash of swords and a loud and bubbly burp behind him. He swung round just in time to see one of his men falling with a dagger in his chest, while the second sagged to the ground clutching his stomach, blood welling between his fingers. And there, disappearing through the door of a nearby hut, was the black-skinned warrior.

  So he was still alive! Klat! Angnail must have fouled up, and so must Kaldis and Bonaponere. Anthrax was right - the man was trouble. But now he was trapped in that hut.

  Nekros opened his mouth and shouted for his men. His harsh voice rang round the streets and houses of the village but was met with silence. Not a creature moved, not a soul stirred. He waited, but it was as though his tribe had vanished from the face of the earth.

  But Nekros wasn't particularly worried. Two of his best men had been ambushed and killed, another ten had vanished, the rest of the tribe were late, and he was apparently on his own against a warrior who the best wizard in the land had predicted might kill him. But he was confident. He knew how good a swordsman he was. The man wasn't yet born who could beat him in a straight fight, and although his magical powers might be a little on the unreliable side he was good enough to hold his own with anyone but a high-class wizard.

  Quickly he cast a Field of Force about himself. It was a bit of a shaky one, but it was strong enough to deflect any non-magical weapon. He could feel the other magical presence hovering at the eastern end of the village. It had an odd greenish tinge that gave an impression of nausea, and it felt decidedly unthreatening at the moment. Excellent! It was just him against the young upstart in the hut.

  Sword in hand, Nekros strode confidently towards the door.

  Tarl, Tyson and Puss stood miserably beside the remains of the well, listening to the ringing sword-blows that echoed round the village. When the first clashes had sounded they had felt full of confidence, but as the fight dragged on and on, sounding more and more ferocious, they had grown very worried. All three desperately wanted to go running to help Ronan, but all three had promised him that they would keep well out of Nekros's way. After all, Anthrax had forecast that Ronan could kill the guy, so they wouldn't really be needed.

  Now they could hear the grunts and gasps of the two warriors. Ronan sounded desperate, and close to exhaustion. Tyson could stand it no longer.

  "I've got to find out what's happening!" she muttered, and drew her sword, but Tarl caught her arm.

  "That's no good," he told her. "There's a Field of Force around Nekros. Your weapons can't harm him!"

  "We've got to do something!"

  "Yeah, but it's going to need magic." Tarl paused. "Klat!" he continued, unhappily. "It's gonna have to be me, isn't it?"

  When Nekros had walked through the door of the hut the black warrior had been standing waiting for him, looking all proud and noble. You could just tell that he was waiting to make some trite little speech about good triumphing over evil, but Nekros hadn't stood around and waited. He had casually slammed a Mind-sting at him. This was his favourite spell, and the one he was best at. It had never failed him, but this time it just bounced off with no effect. The kid was protected! Apprehensively, he Probed and was relieved to find that it was a Shield Spell, a very strong one, but proof only against sorcery. The young warrior had no magical defence against weapons. Nekros snorted to himself with amusement. The fool was obviously hoping to best him in a straight fight! Well, he had a shock coming, then! Without warning, he attacked.

  Ronan had been expecting Nekros to do a little of the taunting that he had used against his father. He hadn't expected the guy to storm straight in, sword in hand, and go for him like a bat out of hell. And not a plain ordinary bat out of hell either, but a blood-crazed, homicidal one with psychopathic tendencies. He had only just got the Sword up in time to prevent himself being sliced in half.

  But as their two weapons clashed together for the first time the Sword had blazed with light and wailed vengefully. Nekros had stood rooted to the spot, an expression of absolute horror on his face, and Ronan had realised that Anthrax had put him onto a real winner. Now for the Word of Power...

  It was then he realised that he had totally, utterly and completely forgotten the Word.

  For several seconds Nekros had stood rooted to the spot. How, by all things evil, had Ronan managed to get his hands on the Sword? No, it couldn't be the same one! He had hidden it in the deepest darkest place he could find, surrounded by the strongest magic of which he was capable! Realisation had hit him like a torrent of ice-cold water. Anthrax! The Shield Spell had his stamp all over it. Suddenly the extent of the wizard's duplicity was clear to him, and Nekros swore to himself that if he managed to get out of this alive, he would slice that vart of a sorcerer into a million pieces. If he got out alive.

  Then he realised that things weren't as bad as he had thought. The kid was standing there with his mouth gaping open, but the only sounds that had emerged were several rather bubbly burps. He had the Sword but he obviously didn't know what to do with it, and he was looking about as happy as a fish with hydrophobia. Nekros still had a chance! He felt like a man whose doctor has just diagnosed cancer and then seconds later has said "only kidding!" If he could just kill Ronan quickly...

  Ronan didn't know how he managed to keep Nekros's blade away. Paralysing blows rained in from all sides at a speed he had never before encountered and with a strength that threatened to cleave straight through the Sword. His mind didn't have time to think. He was fighting purely by instinct. Somehow he managed to deflect every blow, but he was driven backwards, and he had no chance of going on the attack. It was all he could do to defend himself. Then he stumbled and fell. Nekros struck as quickly as a snake, and Ronan desperately threw the Sword up in front of his face. His enemy's blade smashed into the weapon with all of his evil strength behind it, finishing up within an inch of Ronan's forehead.

  "Ha!" yelled Nekros, triumphantly.

  "Klat!" swore Ronan, fearfully.

  "Ouch!" yelped the Sword, painfully.

  And then Ronan had scrambled to his feet and was backing away, cudgelling his brain for the Word. But try as he might it would not come to mind. Slowly, confidently, Nekros followed him, feinting once or twice and testing his defence like a cat toying with a mouse. Then he attacked again.

  Gasping and grunting with the effort, Ronan defended. He knew without a shadow of doubt that Nekros was stronger, faster and more skilful. Already his arm was aching with the effort of wielding the Sword, his lungs were labouring to draw enough breath, and the sweat was running down his face and stinging his eyes. He blinked it away, then flung up the Sword, gasping as another awesome blow nearly knocked it clean out of his hands.

  Nekros was driving him backwards again, and now his back was against the wall and there was nowhere left to go. Four huge blows came powering in at him, yet somehow he managed to deflect each one. But when the fifth one hammered at him his tired muscles could not react in time and he was a fraction slow. He managed to deflect it, but not enough, and a vicious pain stabbed through his left-hand side. Looking down, he saw the blood oozing from a deep cut under his ribs.

  Nekros gave him a look of grudging respect. The kid was good! Any other warrior he had fought would have been lying dead with his blood seeping into the floor by now. But Nekros knew the fight was nearly over. He could see the despair in the young warrior's eyes. With a lazy smile he readied himself for the final assault, drew his sword back, and found that he was suddenly standing in a bed of nettles five feet deep.

  When Tarl had peered nervously through the door of the hut he had seen instantly that Ronan was nearly spent. He had to do something effective, and do it quickly. He riffled through the Book and blindly flung the first halfway suitable spell he could find at Nekros. Unfortunately, he got the words a bit wrong, and instead of a bed of flaming coals appear
ing under the guy's feet and consuming him, it was a bed of stinging nettles.

  However, it was enough to distract Nekros. Seeing Tarl in the doorway he cursed and flung a Mind-sting at him. Somehow Tarl managed to conjure up a deflection, and the Mind-sting ricocheted upwards and hit a spider in the roof-thatch, giving it the worst headache in the whole of arachnid history. Nekros was about to follow it up with a Lightning Ball when Ronan slashed blindly at him with the Sword. The Force Field was strong enough to stop the blow but Nekros lost his concentration at the vital second, and a half-inch diameter ball of rather soggy lightning fizzled out from his fingertips and nose-dived sadly into the ground.

  Ronan backed away, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his enemy. "The Word!" he yelled to Tarl. "I've forgotten the klatting Word!"

  Tarl stared at him blankly. "Don't look at me," he yelled back. "I never knew what it was."

  He ducked as Nekros fired a more effective lightning ball at him, but the evil warrior's aim was way off and it blasted harmlessly through the wall of the hut eight foot away, leaving a smoking hole. Then Ronan went on the attack, and Tarl began leafing desperately through the Book, searching for a way of helping his friend.

  Although the odds were now two against one, Nekros wasn't unduly worried. His Force Field Spell was shaky, but strong enough to prevent Ronan from hurting him. True, with the distraction of that little gimp slinging his second-rate spells at him he would find it harder to break through the kid's defence, but it was only a matter of time. And as for the gimp, Nekros could feel the shakiness of his magical power. He might be able to produce spells that would be irritating, but none that could damage him. Yes, perhaps it might be best to ignore the little gimp altogether and concentrate on killing Ronan. Let him do his worst!