Free Ronan the Barbarian by James Bibby

entered this wild and savage place returned to tell of the horrors of Time-sharing Flatlets...
    THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY
     
    In a hollow in one of the most desolate parts of the Nevacom Plains, a small and rather scared man sat by a campfire, staring nervously into the night. His name was Tarl (unless you happened to be a debt-collector, an irate husband, or the police), and he was wondering whether it might be a good idea to get pissed. He was staring nervously because he felt about as at home out here as a fish would in a brick. His natural environment was the city - and preferably a noisy, dirty, crowded city with an awful lot of booze, women, casinos, and illicit substances.
    When he'd set up camp at dusk, there had been no sign of life anywhere - just an awful lot of broken, jagged rocks, as far as the eye could see. Then, as darkness fell, a dank, creeping mist that smelt of decay had settled gently around him, and all sorts of strange noises had started up. Snuffling noises, howling noises, snarling noises, and screeching noises. The sort of noises made by Things That Eat Tarls. And some of them were getting closer.
      Quickly, he grabbed a handful of the dead wood that he'd painstakingly gathered and flung it on the fire. A few more hesitant flames staggered into life. In the distance a demented braying started up - the sort of noise that might be made by the Donkey from Hell. Tarl, deciding that if there were going to be a lot of noises, they might as well be noises he was familiar with, started to chat out loud to himself.
    "You must be mad. Sitting out here in the middle of the wilderness, miles from anywhere, surrounded by things you wouldn't even play cards with. Well, it's your own fault. You knew what would happen if those orcs caught you with your hand in the till."   He jumped as something screeched loudly almost overhead, and small coruscating sparks began to skitter around his fingertips. Damn! That always happened at moments of extreme stress, and he hated it. The only way to stop it quickly was to have a few drinks. He sighed and reached out for the wineskin that was lying on the ground beside his backpack. At that moment, the distant braying reached a crescendo, and was answered by the low whinny of a horse. A low whinny that was close. Very close.
    Slowly, quietly, Tarl drew himself up to his full five feet, and rested his hand on his sword-hilt. Horses don't go wandering round in the wilderness by themselves. They've got too much sense. That meant a rider. And whoever it was wouldn't pass by a fire without investigating. A friendly traveller would be glad of the company, and an unfriendly traveller would... Tarl gritted his teeth, and then nearly stopped breathing. It had suddenly gone very quiet. Every single animal noise had stopped.
    "OK, who's there?" Tarl's voice filled the silence like a raindrop filling a swimming pool. Red and green sparks seeped from his fingertips and fell crackling to the ground. "Come on, I know you're there. Say something." He listened again. Not a sound - then the clink of one stone against another as someone moved. "Come on, whoever you are! Say something, otherwise there's going to be a nasty accident! I'm not joking... my bowels scare easily!"
    There was a moment's silence, and then a massive and rather frightening warrior strolled out of the darkness. He was leading a large horse and holding the biggest sword that Tarl had ever seen. Around his neck he wore a leather thong, from which dangled a teddy bear's head. For some reason, this childish object made him seem more threatening. He paused, and then challenged Tarl. "I am Ronan, Vanquisher of Evil. Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose quickly!"
    Tarl didn't need more than an instant to make up his mind. Vanquishers of Evil tend to be good guys, and this Bozo had Good written in every noble line of his face. And good guys don't usually stick swords in you if you're nice to them. Tarl held up a welcoming hand, and