Ronan the Barbarian Read Online Free PDF Page A

for more telluric-related objects.
    "Ah, the bow and arrow!" the Smith said, pleased. "This is something you can make yourselves. I can supply the arrow-heads."
    "Boa narra. Hm." Thom was fascinated. Experimentally he flexed the bowstring, and turned to the other villagers. "It's got a long bit of wood, with this string thing going all the way from the top to the bottom, and another bit of wood with a pointy end and feathers, that goes..."
    There was a loud twang. Thom stared down.
    "...right through my foot."
    "No, no, not like that!" Angrily the Smith grabbed the weapon off the bemused villager, and a hum of excited murmuring started. Ronan watched, nervously. His father seemed close to losing his temper, and Ronan was well aware of the spectacular results on the few times this had occurred. There had been that time when one of the Mad Monks... Ronan mentally apologised to whatever Deities were listening, and hastily corrected himself... one of the Religious Brotherhood, rather, had threatened him with eternal damnation. The Smith had picked him up bodily and thrown him out. Through the wall. Admittedly, it was only a wattle-and-daub wall, but it had been a lot harder than the Monk's face.
    Suddenly, the door swung open. "What manner of meeting is this?" hissed a sleazy voice. The Smith cursed, and Ronan turned and gasped in dismay. Apparently you couldn't even think about the Brotherhood now without them turning up!
    For there in the doorway stood two members of The Most Holy Brotherhood of the Truly Humble - Prior Onion and Brother Turnip. The latter was large and fat, and when by himself could be quite a nice, friendly guy. But the Prior! Small and skinny, with a pale face sporting the sort of precisely-clipped moustache that only total bastards wear, he had sneering eyes that never seemed to quite meet your gaze, and hair that looked as though it had half a tub of lard on it. He delighted in scaring the shit out of the less intelligent with sermons of hellfire and damnation, and only his lack of imagination had prevented him and his Order from frightening the Villagers out of their few remaining wits. That, and the rather odd nature of the Brotherhood's Holy Book - the Gospels of Saint Tim the Insipid.
    Prior Onion gazed round, enjoying the sudden silence, embarrassed foot-shuffling, and clearing of throats that greeted his appearance. He was always most at ease amid the discomfort of others.
    "I said," he continued, in a voice like goose-grease dripping off a wheel-shaft, "what manner of meeting is this?"
    The Smith knew he could not afford to alienate the Prior, who had such a hold over the villagers that he could undo everything the Smith was trying to accomplish with just one word.
    "Holy Father," he said, " I am merely warning our people of the dangers that threaten us all. The fell tribe that is sweeping the land draw ever nearer, and we must prepare ourselves...."
    "Prepare ourselves, yes!"   The Prior's voice sliced through the Smith's like a scalpel through butter. "But not with such profane weapons! Do you not see in this the hand of the Lord? We of The Brotherhood are prepared, for is it not foretold in the Divine Writings of Saint Tim? Know ye not the Seven Holy Plagues?"
    He raised one hand, and the sleeve of his voluminous habit fell back to reveal a book in his grasp... a leather-bound book, embossed on the cover with a golden question mark. The Smith had opened his mouth to argue, but the gasp of reverential fear from the assembled villagers warned him that he'd lost them. Prior Onion continued, voice raised in religious fervour, and a self-satisfied smirk playing around his lips.
    "Hear ye the words of Saint Tim the Insipid!" He opened the book, and began to read. "And it shall come to pass that the Children of the Lord shall turn away from the Lord, and shall not behave themselves. And the Lord shall be a little put out, saying unto himself, I suppose I'd better do something about this. And behold, the