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to stand together in the unbearable heat of the forge, side by side as his father hammered out another sword? A lot of use they'd been, though. The handles always came off...
    Suddenly Ronan was on his knees, clutching his father’s ice-cold hand, the tears streaming down his face. For what seemed an age grief overwhelmed him, until eventually the pain abated and he found he was left with a cold implacable hatred. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but he was going to track down Nekros and kill the bastard. Then, as he rose, he realised that the hush of death that hung over the village was being gently broken. Someone somewhere was humming.
     
    Ronan finally tracked the sound down to Water Street, where he found Old Palin slumped against the well, a black-feathered arrow sticking out of his groin. Palin had often been referred to as the wisest man in the village (which is rather like referring to the roughest billiard ball, or the most attractive tapeworm). Now he was sitting there in a pool of blood, with a shield in one hand, a broken sword in the other, and a battered helm on his head, softly humming to himself.
    "Old Palin!" Ronan gasped. "You're alive! But... you're wounded!"
    "Not much gets past you, eh, lad! Nay, don't fuss. ‘Tis naught but a scratch."
    "A scratch?" Ronan stared at the wicked-looking arrow doubtfully.
    "I was lucky, boy. Bound for my heart, it was, 'til I deflected it with this shield-thing your father gave me. Pity I deflected it downwards, though. It's gone straight through my wedding-tackle. What a way to go, eh? Pinned to the ground by your privates!" He started to laugh and then coughed, a dry hacking cough that racked his whole body. Ronan watched fascinated as the tip of the arrow jerked up and down with every spasm.
    "You must be in agony!" he said.
    "No, no." Old Palin waved a depreciating hand. "In a strange kind of way it's almost enjoyable." His breathing was slowly becoming more laboured. Ronan stepped past him to the well and drew up a bucket-full of water. Then he gently removed the helm from Palin's head, tapped it a couple of times on the well's brickwork to dislodge the numerous unpleasant little creatures that had moved into it from Palin's scalp, and filled it with water. He handed it to the wounded man, who gratefully drank from it.
    "Ah! Thanks, Ronan. You're a good lad. Take after your father, you do." He sighed. "He was right, your Dad. Said we should watch out for Nekros and his tribe. We should have listened."
    At the mere mention of the name Nekros, Ronan was nearly sick with hatred. He found himself wanting to do horrid things to someone with sharpened poles. "Good Master Palin", he ground out, "I swear to you that I will not rest until I have sought out Nekros and consigned his foul soul to the dark chasm that spawned him!"
    Palin chuckled painfully. "Where do you get these phrases from? The dark chasm that spawned him, indeed! You've been reading too many Chronicles!" Suddenly serious, Palin reached out and grabbed Ronan's sleeve, pulling him closer. "Listen, son. You're no match for a hard bastard like Nekros. Not yet, anyway, though your Dad had hopes for you. You need to learn to fight. Go to Warrior School. Port Raid is the place, on the west coast. Learn the trade...." His voice died away, and his hand loosened and slipped to the ground.
    "Old Palin! Don't leave me!" But as Ronan looked down at the glazed eyes and the slack jaw, he knew it was no use. Sadly, he stood up and looked round. Yesterday, he had a home, family, friends...   Now all of a sudden he was totally alone. There was nothing left to live for.
    Except revenge.

TOWN
     
    So were Ronan's tribe, the Edmak, destroyed. Nekros the Black was their bane, and thus was he known in the land of Tak as the Edmak Bane...
    ...and so in his sixteenth year did Ronan come to Port Raid, on the west coast of Frundor. A rough and dangerous town was this, where mingled the three free races, dwarves, elves and