Ronan the Barbarian Read Online Free PDF

skies shall move, the heavens shall open, and there shall be minor local showers, so that the people get wet, coming home from the pub! And there shall be slight overnight frost, so their tomato plants, they shall not flourish! But still the people shall not turn to the Lord, and he shall be rather put out. And then shall there be a plague of cheap cigarette-lighters, and the people shall incinerate their eyebrows. And shall there be a plague of greenfly, and other garden pests, and the people shall cry out, saying, "Lo! The leaves have fallen off me chrysanths, and the birds have been at me strawberries again!" But still they shall not repent. And his vexation shall be rather disconcerting to behold! And he shall visit upon them a plague of dung, a plague of salesmen, and a plague of chesty coughs!"
    The Prior slammed the book shut with satisfaction, and looked round at the villagers to make sure that they had got the message. "A plague of salesman, you see! Thus is it written!"
    The Smith was staring at him as though he was stark staring mad. Unfortunately, Ronan realised, everyone else was staring at him as though he was God. Somebody muttered " A plague of chesty coughs! Rabid Dan was coughing only yesterday!" and suddenly all the villagers were on their knees, hands clasped in supplication. Except, that is, for Thom, who suddenly discovered how difficult it is to kneel when one foot is pinned to the floor by an arrow. The Smith stared round him in desperation, and had one last try.
    "But a plague of salesmen!" he cried, "Surely you're not suggesting that Nekros and the Tribe of Fallon are rampaging through the land selling thatch extensions?"
    "Only repent and ye shall be saved." The Prior smiled at him like a lizard that had woken to find itself knee-deep in succulent flies, then raised his voice to address the villagers. "My people! It is not too late! Join with me in prayer! Brother Turnip shall lead us in selected hymns of the Blessed Saint Tim, while I shall take up the Sacred Collection!" Quickly, he whipped a large collection-box out from under his habit. "And remember, money is the root of all evil. So lighten your pockets, and be pure in the eyes of the Lord!"
    He started to move among the villagers, who were all feverishly scrabbling in their pockets for money. Brother Turnip produced an ancient kaladion , which he desperately tried to pump into action. It gave a couple of choking sounds, then suddenly screeched into life, sounding like an elderly soprano sheep having its legs pulled off. The resulting "tune" was almost impossible to recognise, but could have been "Oh Lord, we've really been quite naughty", one of Saint Tim's more interesting hymns.
    The Smith knew when he was beaten. Taking Ronan by the shoulder, he led him through the door into the cool night air. Outside, it was nearly as noisy as inside the hall. The death-throes of the kaladion had woken every dog in the village. Most were barking, some were meowing, and at least one was clucking. Ronan looked at his father, worriedly.
    "Shouldn't we do something? I mean..." his voice died away as he saw the desperation in his father's eyes.
    "We will, but now is not the time. Damn those mad monks to hell!" The Smith stood there glowering for a moment, then slapped his son on the shoulder and smiled raggedly.
    "Come on, back to the forge. We have work to do. There will be other nights. We have little time, but we can still save our people."
    Unfortunately for the Smith, he had no idea just how little time they had...
     
    Four nights later, Ronan was lying in his bed on one side of the single large room that was their hut, watching the smoke curl up from the dying embers in the central fireplace towards the small smoke-hole in the roof, and waiting for his father to come home. He'd nipped out to the village's tiny alehouse, the Headless Chicken, for a celebratory drink, as that evening they'd held their first proper weapons-training session. Uninterrupted