Conan the Barbarian

  “And likely will, if he does, and if he cannot handle any other weapon.” Corin ladled thick brown stew into a pair of wooden bowls. “A warrior may describe his skill with a blade when he’s talking about a battle he has survived; but to survive there’s not a one of them that wouldn’t use anything that came to hand as a weapon.”

  The boy shook his head. “You can’t use just anything as a weapon.”

  “Yes, you can.” Corin handed his son a steaming bowl of stew. “There, for example, your supper. You could use that as a weapon.”

  Conan’s brow furrowed as he studied the brown gravy and bits of meat and beans in it. “It’s not hot enough to burn. And the bowl is not heavy enough to kill. I don’t see how.”

  The smith stood and set his bowl on the table. He extended his hand toward his son. “Here, let me show you.”

  Conan, eyes narrowed warily, handed him the bowl.

  “Good, now just sit over there.” As his son sank to the floor by the door, Corin seated himself at the table and began to eat his stew. The venison cubes could have done with a bit more cooking, and he’d have to trade for more salt before winter ended, but it tasted good. He suddenly wished for a hearty loaf of bread—the kind his wife had been famous for making. He’d never learned how to make it himself, and Conan showed no aptitude for baking. Not that the boy ever would have indulged himself in anything that didn’t lead directly to his being a warrior.

  Conan stretched his legs out.

  Corin finished his stew and started in on Conan’s bowl.

  The Cimmerian boy’s foot twitched, betraying impatience. But it wasn’t until Conan’s head began to sink, his shoulders rise, and glower to deepen that Corin relented and turned toward his son. “So you want to know how this stew could kill someone?”

  Conan nodded.

  “Not counting poison, the stew would kill the way it is killing you now.” Corin pushed the bowl toward Conan’s place at the table. “By not having any.”

  The boy frowned.

  “When you hear stories about our destroying the Aquilonians at Brita’s Vale, what do you remember?”

  Conan’s face brightened. “How Connacht slew a centurion and scattered a whole legion of knights.”

  “Of course.” Corin shook his head. “Don’t you remember what came before? Why were the Aquilonians at Brita’s Vale?”

  “The Cimmerians forced them there to fight. They knew they were doomed, so they formed up to defend themselves.”

  “Good, now I want you to do something, Conan, something very important.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve thrilled to my father’s stories as a child. I did the same when I was your age. But now I want you to think of the story with a man’s mind.” Corin closed his eyes for a moment, remembering when he had learned what he hoped Conan would now learn, and wishing that it had been his father who encouraged him to learn the lesson. “The Aquilonians had come north to punish Cimmerians for raiding along the frontier. They burned villages and slaughtered people as they came north. They were invincible until they reached the vale. How did they become vulnerable?”

  The boy’s mouth opened for a heartbeat, but shut quickly enough. Blue eyes flashed warily. Conan’s face became an iron mask of concentration, and Corin felt pride blossom in his breast. In that moment he saw the man his son could become, and he hoped he had the patience and strength to aid him on that journey.

  Conan’s gaze darted toward the stew. “Your father described raids on the supply trains coming to aid the Aquilonians. The Cimmerians took away their stew. They killed their reinforcements. They starved them of men, iron, and food. The Aquilonians could go no further.”

  “Very good, Conan, very good.” Corin toed the bench away from the side of the table. “Come, finish your dinner and get more.”

  The boy, smiling, sprang to his seat and devoured the stew. Corin let him finish what was left of the bowl in silence, then began talking as Conan returned with a second helping.

  “You must understand, son, that many a battle is won before the first arrow flies or the first sword is drawn. Brita’s Vale was a close-won battle. The Aquilonian general had chosen his position well. Had his troops been a little less hungry, ’twould be some noble’s villa on this very spot. The Aquilonians knew us as we know them . . . and to engage any enemy without knowing him is folly.”

  Conan glanced over, then nodded. “Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you never go raiding as your father did?”

  “Are you suggesting I did not have the courage to go?”

  The boy’s spoon plopped back into the stew. “No, Father, no. I’ve heard the stories. Everyone says you are a great warrior, that just knowing Corin lives in this village is what keeps our enemies at bay. It is just that . . .”

  The smith reached out with a scarred hand and gave his son’s forearm a squeeze. “I heard no disrespect in your voice, my son. And, like you, the tales of my father’s adventures certainly filled my dreams. But I think I am a more practical man than my father. This is why I am a smith. I can take ore and smelt it. I can pour it into a mold. I can fire it and hammer it and temper it. I can test it and sharpen it. I can shape it into something which is real and is useful. I make things which allow others to live their lives more easily.”

  The elder Cimmerian smiled. “For all the stories of treasure and glory, have you seen a single gem in my father’s possession? A medal from some distant potentate? A proclamation from some king thanking him? No. But there is not a single man in this village who does not carry steel I shaped for him. I am content in knowing that I keep this village safe. It is my duty, and a duty I take most seriously.”

  “But, you know things of war. You could be a great war leader.”

  Corin sat back and laughed. “There is one tale of Aquilonia which my father used to tell, but I do not think you have heard it. When a general wins a great victory, they parade him through Tarantia in a chariot of gold, drawn by eight white stallions. Throngs line the streets. They throw flowers and gold and offer him their daughters. Everyone adores him.”

  Conan’s eyes brightened. He sat forward, his unfinished stew forgotten.

  “But in that chariot, nestled at his feet, is a dwarf. Throughout that parade, through the showers of gold and flowers, the dwarf says but one thing over and over again. ‘Remember thou art but a man. As you have slain, so shall you be slain. Glory is fleeting, and you will be but a ghost in a scroll which will turn to dust before you are ever remembered.’ ”

  Conan’s expression of rapture dissolved into a look of confusion. “But that makes no sense. Crom wishes us to be brave and fierce. It is for this that we live.”

  Corin nodded. “So, you know the tale of Brita’s Vale. You know its heroes.”

  “Of course.”

  “And what of the time before that when we threw the Gundermen back into Aquilonia?”

  “I . . .”

  “Or the time before that?”

  Conan sat straight up and pounded a fist on the table. “No one will ever forget Conan, son of Corin!”

  Unable to contain his pride, Corin laughed heartily, then clapped his son on both shoulders. “By Crom, that is a declaration I believe even the gods will honor. Now finish your stew.”

  As his son returned to eating, Corin got up and crossed the small hut. He reached up and pulled a cloth-wrapped package from atop a rafter, then returned and laid it on the table. “While you were dreaming of glories, I made this for you. Ah, no, finish your meal first.”

  There could be no mistaking what lay within the gray woolen wrapping. Long and slender, with the obvious projection of a cross hilt, it had to be a sword. Not a great sword or a long sword, but more than a knife.

  Conan, showing more restraint than his father would have credited him with, finished the stew, then gathered both bowls and the wooden spoons with which they’d eaten and set them in a bucket. He looked expectantly at his father, clearly wi
lling to do the washing up if the order would be given. Corin hesitated for a moment, then shook his head and smiled.

  “Open it.”

  Conan lifted the sword in his hand, hefting the weapon before its unveiling. Then, slowly, with the same care Connacht had described using when unwrapping a harem wench in Koth, Conan freed the sword from its confines. With a steel blade half again the length of the youth’s forearm, a bronze cross hilt and pommel, and a leather-wrapped grip, it clearly was no toy. Though the edges remained dull, and the tip rounded, if needed to kill a man, it would suffice.

  Conan reached for the hilt, then hesitated, looking at his father.

  Corin nodded. “Understand some things. I hammered this from an Aquilonian short sword a scavenger dug out of Brita’s Vale. It’s not Cimmerian steel—you’ll earn that—but it is better than a stick for practicing.”

  The youth nodded, lifting the blade, slowly moving it around in lazy circles. He only half listened to his father—Corin really had expected nothing less. The smith knew he would be repeating the rules to his son many times, and that more than once he’d have to take the blade away from him to instill discipline. Still, the care with which the boy studied the weapon’s weight pleased him. Any other boy—including those being trained by the warriors—would have first looked for something to cut, then would have run into the middle of the room, fighting phantoms and shadows.

  “Conan, you will shape a scabbard for your blade. You will oil it and care for it. You will not put an edge on it until I give you leave to do so. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded, then sighted down the length of the blade.

  “It is true and straight, my son.” Like your spirit.

  Conan looked up. “Father, I—”

  Corin held a hand up. “Do not thank me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is a terrible thing I have done here, my son.” I hope your mother will forgive me. “Know this. Because of this blade, you will be very angry with me—more times than either of us will care to remember.”

  “No, Father—”

  “Accept that is so, Conan. And this is the other terrible part: in giving you that sword, I will let the man you will become slay the child you have been.” Corin took the blade from his son. “A weapon like this is only good for killing men.”

  Conan smiled. “I shall destroy our enemies.”

  “So I hope, but you must remember, my son, that this sword cannot tell friend from enemy.” Corin flipped it around and offered the hilt to his son. “And it can kill the man at either end of it. Sometimes both.”

  Conan accepted the sword, then returned it to its wrappings. “I shall make a scabbard. I will not sharpen it. And I will train only after my chores are done.”

  “Very good.”

  The boy looked up. “Will you train me?”

  The question caught Corin off guard. “When the time comes, Conan, the warriors—”

  “Father, I see them look to you. They see you as their master.” Conan’s eyes widened. “You shape the sword to suit the swordsman. I would have you shape the swordsman.”

  “If you do every chore I set for you, complete every task I give you, then, yes, I will train you.” Corin nodded solemnly. “I’ve given you the means to kill men . . . and I shall train you so you know when to do it, and how to do it well.”

  CHAPTER 3

  CROUCHED IN THE shadow of an evergreen, Conan watched the invaders march through his forest. The weight of his sword tugged at his left hip. His hands, palms leathery with a winter’s work with his blade, flexed; their pain forgotten. He kept his breathing shallow, exhaling so his misty breath would dissipate in the branches above. He shifted slowly, allowing no movement, no sound, to betray is position.

  Ardel led the other young men through the forest. They’d been sent on a patrol, but it was really little more than a game. Winter had blanketed Cimmeria with deep snows. Even the most determined invader would wait for walls of snow to melt before heading north. The patrol was a fool’s errand, but Ardel led the troupe as if he were a king intent on vanquishing a horde. Each of them carried a sword—blades longer by half than the one Conan bore—but he comforted himself with the knowledge that none of them could use the blades as well as he could.

  That winter, which should have been intolerable for all the snow, had been glorious for Conan. The snow made some chores impossible, which gave him just that much more time to practice with his sword. He’d spent more time with it in his grasp than out, and the first blood it had tasted had been his from the blisters it raised on his hands.

  His father had devised a training routine for him. Conan had expected it to mirror what the other warriors put Ardel and his troupe through. It did not, and Conan suspected his father did things differently simply to challenge his son. Conan became bored quickly, which led to inattention—and that would get him killed faster than anything else. Some of the exercises led to frustration, but every time Conan reached the point of being disgusted, his father gave him another task.

  Little by slowly, Conan began to understand what his father was doing. At midwinter, Corin had tasked him with hauling a large block of ice from a nearby pond, then crushing it into thumb-size shards, using the pommel. Conan had beaten the ice for hours, making great headway at first, but slackening as his muscles tired and he grew cold. Then his father had him gather up all the ice chips, place them in a small leather trough, and add water.

  And the next morning, when the ice had frozen solid, he commanded his son to break the ice up again. For three mornings running, he gave Conan that job. On the fourth, Conan kept his sword in its scabbard and fetched a hammer from the smithy.

  Corin, tall, his massive arms folded over his chest, studied the boy. “What are you doing?”

  Conan brandished the hammer. “This is the better tool for that job.”

  “But I want you to use your sword.”

  “Why?”

  “Because”—his father’s eyes narrowed—“in battle you may not be able to find a hammer. If you think that a blade’s edge or point are the only useful parts, you might as well go to war unarmed.”

  Conan set the hammer down and drew his sword. He smashed ice with the pommel, taking care this time to study not the size of the shards that flew off, but the cracks that remained. He shifted his aim, pounding a crack at its tip. A larger piece broke away. Again he struck, and within an hour had reduced the block as instructed.

  He entered the forge. “It’s done, Father.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Some tools are better than others for some jobs, and that the blade is not the only or even best part of the sword for some jobs.”

  Reddish hell-light played over his father’s features. “What else? Why did you finish faster?”

  The boy thought. “I learned about the enemy. I learned its weakness and attacked it there.”

  “Very good, boy.”

  Conan smiled. “Now, Father, will you fight with me?”

  Corin looked over and faintly grinned. “Not yet, Conan. You’ve learned enough for a day. You have chores.”

  “Father!”

  “Loughlan brought his ax for sharpening.” The smith pointed at the wheel in the far corner. “Put a keen edge on it.”

  “Yes, Father, and then I can put an edge on my sword?”

  Corin sighed. “You’ve barely learned what you can do with the weapon’s blunt edge, Conan. When you know that sword as an eagle knows its talons, then, and only then, will you sharpen it. For now, however, you’ll learn how to put an edge on other things, so you won’t dishonor your sword when the time comes.”

  Conan had wanted to rebel, but his father’s reminder about honoring the blade appealed to him. It gave him a reason to be patient, so he was. He performed every exercise a hundred times, then two hundred and a thousand. When Corin pronounced himself satisfied and offered a new exercise, Conan would perform previous exercises to prepare for the new. br />
  Some of the things his father asked of him seemed outlandish. Corin fitted a lead-filled sheath over the blade’s tip, shifting the balance and doubling the blade’s weight. He ordered his son to trace smoke as it rose through the air, or slash at sparks rising from the hearth. The exercise left Conan bathed in sweat. When he tired and tumbled, soot and dust caked him. But always he got back up and kept doing as commanded until his father called a halt.

  Just as Conan was about to complain about the futility of this exercise, Corin slid the sheath from the blade. “One more time.”

  Conan ran his forearm across his brow, smearing black soot. His father pumped the forge’s bellows, launching sparks. The sword whipped out quickly, hitting one, then another and another. Conan, the steel an extension of his arm, whirled and leaped, stabbed and slashed. Even when he stumbled, he cut through a spark, rolled, and came up to impale another.

  “Enough, son.”

  Day after day, and through the long nights of winter, Conan trained. Each exercise built upon the one before it. Once he learned how to do something well, the lead sheath returned, or his father might secure his ankles with a short length of chain, forcing him to maintain his balance. Not yet strong enough to send his blade crashing through another fighter’s guard, he learned that a quick cut could be just as deadly as a crushing blow.

  Conan worked with two goals in mind. The first was to be granted permission to sharpen the sword. His slash would move faster than the eye could see, and his blade would open throats or thighs, slit bellies, and pierce any flesh his enemies left unguarded. He’d always known he’d grow into a powerful man, but being fast with a razored sword in hand would make him even more powerful.

  The second goal—and he acknowledged that his father might grant it before the first—was for his father to spar with him. Corin’s refusal wasn’t born out of fear. Conan’s father didn’t know fear. But each refusal suggested to Conan that he was somehow unworthy of being a warrior in his father’s eyes. Conan wanted that recognition desperately, and would stop at nothing to earn it.