Corin’s father had been surprised when he realized the nature of Corin’s goal: it was not to create a sword he could take into battle, but to create the sword that was meant to be his in battle. Connacht could never understand that about his son, but at least he respected it. He was as proud of everything Corin did as he was of his own youthful adventuring.
Conan plunged his sword into a trough. The water bubbled and steamed. He pulled the blade out again, rivulets running. Corin felt certain that his son was seeing blood.
“Is it finished, Conan?”
Conan looked over at his father, then nodded.
Corin rose and crossed to the anvil. He took the blade from his son and turned it over. The boy had shaped it well. The forte would turn blades. The tang would not sheer off, yet was not so heavy as to unbalance the blade. It tapered to a point, but not too sharp a one.
“Nicely done, boy.”
Conan smiled, his soot-stained face streaked with sweat trails.
“But let me ask you this: Which is most important when forging a blade? Fire or ice?”
The boy snorted. “Fire.”
Corin raised an eyebrow as he continued to study his son’s handiwork.
“Ice?”
“Are you certain?”
Conan nodded, but hesitantly.
The smith smashed the blade against the anvil. It rang dully, then shivered into fragments. Conan stared down, his shocked expression mirrored in the metal shards. His expression darkened as he looked up at his father.
’Tis a lesson best learned now, my son. “We’ll begin again, Conan.” Corin knelt and began gathering metal shards. “You’ll learn what makes a great sword makes a great warrior. By the time you know that, you will be ready to wield the blade we shall make together.”
CHAPTER 5
CONAN WATCHED EXPECTANTLY as his father studied the blade. The boy had hoped it would be finished three weeks previously, but his father had made him rework the blade. “You’re growing too fast,” Corin had complained. He redesigned the blade, lengthening it, making the tang and forte more stout so it would be a worthy sword for the man Conan was to become.
But Conan wanted it now. “What do you think, Father?”
“Close, very close.” Corin bounced the blade on the anvil. The metal quivered and rang sweetly. He stabbed it into the fire again and nodded to his son. “A little more heat.”
Despite the aching in his limbs from all his chores and all the training, Conan pumped the bellows with all the vigor he could muster. Sparks flew and heat blossomed. Using tongs, his father turned the blade over amid the glowing coals, then drew it out. “Get the small hammer.”
Conan did as he was bidden and shaped the weapon where his father pointed. “Gently, boy, but firmly. A smith, a swordsman, must maintain control of his tools. Smooth that out. And there, and there.”
The boy hammered carefully, relishing the peal of metal on metal. Something about it bespoke strength. So unlike the hiss and skirl of steel on steel in battle, where strong blades became vipers. The sound coaxed from the sword and anvil by the hammer meant that he need never fear the blade betraying him. This he had come to understand.
Corin inspected his handiwork, then glanced at the cooling trough. “Go get more ice.”
Conan ran out and chipped ice from a block, then carried it back into the forge and dumped it into the trough. “When you asked me which is more important, fire or ice, you never told me the answer.”
Corin raised the blade, and in the shadows beneath the forge’s roof, the metal still glowed dully. “A blade must be like a swordsman. It must be flexible. A sword must bend, or it will break. And for that to happen, it must be tempered.”
The smith plunged the sword into the trough. Ice melted, and water bubbled and steamed with the hiss of a thousand snakes. “Fire and ice. Together. This is the mystery of steel.”
“Is it done, Father?”
Corin nodded. “Yes, but you’re not.”
“But you have taught me much.”
“Do not misunderstand me, Conan. You have learned much—more than boys half again your age. But it is not in what you know, but how you apply it, that we will see how great a swordsman you will become.” Corin folded his arms over his chest. “Do you remember when I asked you that question? When I shattered your sword?”
Conan’s face flushed. He had been so proud of what he’d done, and then found it was worthless. In an instant he had gone from victorious to defeated. “I remember.”
“Did you think the question fair?”
The boy shrugged.
“Did you wonder why I had let you proceed without giving you the answer, and telling you something so important?”
Conan glanced down. “You wanted me to learn to hammer before I could make a sword?”
His father leaned back against the anvil. “In part, you are correct. But there is something you need to know, about men, about yourself. Men learn in one of two ways. Some observe, ask questions, think and act. Others act and fail, and if they survive their failure, they learn from it. Clever though you are, my son, you do not ask questions. You think of your ignorance as a failure.
“So you failed at your first attempt to make a sword. Have you learned from it?”
Conan could not bring himself to meet his father’s gaze. He considered the man’s words and wanted to deny their truth. He couldn’t, at least not about men in general. But Conan wanted to be more. He was destined to be something special. Great warrior and more, as his mother desired. And yet his father was right. He didn’t like asking questions just in case he revealed ignorance about something everyone else knew.
Does that make me weak? Conan frowned. Maybe just stubborn.
He looked up. “Which were you, Father?”
Corin roared with laughter. “Your grandfather was a man of great passions and tempers. He did not reward failure in himself or anyone else. So I would watch. I would maybe ask a question—though, I admit, with him I asked for a story to hide my intention. I learned to do things correctly and sought never to fail. When I have, however, I survived and have learned.”
A certain melancholy had entered his father’s voice. Conan’s eyes narrowed. “Is this why you have never taken another wife?”
Corin folded his arms over his chest. “Your mother, and her death, were not a failure. We have you as proof of that. But when she died, my heart ached terribly. I survived. It may make me a coward, but I never dared love again. When you find that one woman, Conan, the one who fires your heart, who makes you feel alive and makes you want to be a better man than you are, never let her go. I was that fortunate once. It would not have been fair to hold anyone else up to comparison with your mother.”
Conan’s father fell silent, and the boy said nothing to break the silence. He’d seen his father turn reflective before—often while watching him, but at times when Conan didn’t think his father knew the boy could see him. His father had always displayed serenity and wisdom, but this time pain creased his brow. Conan did not see this as weakness, however. To surrender to it would have been weakness.
Survive. Learn. The boy nodded solemnly. “I will make you proud, Father.”
Corin’s expression lightened. “You already have—even though there are times you disappoint me.”
“Father, I won’t ever again.”
Corin crouched and looked up at his son. “Don’t make promises you cannot keep, Conan. We all disappoint others. If we never do, it’s because we never take a chance, we never live. What your mother wanted, what I want, is for you to live and live wonderfully large.”
The smith rose to his full height and tousled the boy’s hair with a scarred hand. “You’re not yet the man for that sword, but tomorrow we begin getting you there.”
OVER THE NEXT month Corin began training his son. “The first thing you must remember, Conan, is that men call it ‘sword fighting’ but it is really ‘man fighting.’ A blade is only as keen as the mind driving
the arm.”
To make his point, Corin extended the sword they’d made full out, resting the tip at the top of his son’s breastbone. “Cut me with your sword.”
The black-haired boy, eager, thrust toward his father. The man’s longer reach, and the length of his sword, brought Conan’s effort up short. The boy ducked away from Corin’s sword, but Corin merely retreated a step and again pressed the tip to his son’s chest. The boy’s eyes narrowed, then he beat Corin’s blade aside with a great clang and clash of metal.
Yet before he could get close, Corin had slipped back again. He met every harsh parry with a retreat, every bulllike rush with a sidestep. Conan’s face flushed. Lips peeled back from teeth in a feral snarl. The boy knocked the blade aside, then spun, but Corin likewise pivoted, then slapped the boy across the buttocks with the flat of the sword. Conan slipped and flew headlong into a snowbank.
He came up sputtering, spitting out snow. “You’re not fighting fair!”
The smith stabbed the blade into the ground and rested his hands on the pommel. “Do you think anyone you ever face across a blade will fight fairly?”
“Men fight honorably.”
“No. If you choose to believe that, you’ll die in your very first battle.” Corin shook his head slowly. “Men who survive tell other men that they fought honorably. They lie. Remember all the tales your grandfather has told? Has he ever mentioned a Kothian or Gunderman or Shemite who fought honorably?”
Conan shook himself like an animal, flinging snow off his clothes. “No.”
“And you do think anyone who survived fighting against him ever described him as honorable?”
“No.”
“If you remember nothing else, my son, remember this: it’s not the man who slays the most who wins a battle; it’s the man who survives who wins it.”
The boy, frowning, rubbed his bottom. “And what if I kill them all?”
“Then you are the only survivor.” Corin pulled the blade from the snow. “So, first I shall show you how to survive, then I shall train you in how to kill.”
Conan watched him warily, but did as he was told. Corin began by showing his son how to retreat and keep his footing. He showed him the four gates—up-right, up-left, down-right, down-left—that would block all slashes. He showed him the five sweeps to turn lunges and the brushes to guide blades wide.
The boy’s natural speed and agility made him adept at all of them, but his impatience to strike back diluted his focus. More than once, when Conan tried a clumsy riposte, Corin bound his sword and knocked him to the ground. The boy would bounce up again, fury blazing in those blue eyes, and would come on. Because of his size, skill, and reach, Corin never feared injury. He knocked his son down again and again, until the boy could no longer rise—which took well into the night on some occasions.
Corin stood over him one night as large snowflakes drifted down. “Do you know why I keep beating you?”
Conan spat blood from a split lip. “Because you will not teach me to attack.”
“It takes no skills and no intelligence to stick something sharp into someone. A scorpion can do it. A wasp. An elk.” The smith sighed. “All the times we have trained, what have you learned?”
“You don’t fight fair.”
“The whispers of ghosts bother me not at all. What have you learned?”
The boy sat up in the snow, his sullen eyes covered in shadows. “You have a longer reach than me. You move too quickly for me to close.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“I have to be quicker. I have to be stronger.”
“No, son.” Corin shook his head. “It means you shouldn’t be fighting me with a sword.”
The boy blinked.
“Every man you face will have his strengths and weaknesses. Every group of men. Every army—anything you will ever fight will have strengths and weaknesses. If you attack his strengths, you will lose. If you bring your strength to bear on his weakness, you will win.”
Conan scowled. “You don’t have a weakness.”
Corin sank to a knee and rested his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I do have a weakness, Conan. You don’t see it as such, but I do. It’s not one you’ll ever be able to use against me, but it is there.”
The boy looked up. “Then I will never be able to beat you.”
“You will.” Corin smiled. “Tomorrow, in fact, I shall teach you how.”
CORIN MOVED ONTO the sheath of ice that covered the river and waved his son out after him. Winds had scoured the ice clean of snow, so he spread his feet carefully, setting himself. “Two weeks you’ve spent learning to attack, Conan. Do you really think you’ve earned this blade?”
The youth nodded, setting himself.
“Then come take it. Take it and it’s yours.”
Conan’s eyes widened for a moment, then he darted forward, roaring a war cry. He slashed low, but Corin blocked low-left. The smith brought the hilt up, deflecting the quick high slash, then shoved.
Conan, off balance, scrambled to keep his footing. He went down hard, but never lost his grip on the sword. Ice cracked beneath where he’d fallen, but the boy bounced up again and drove at his father. High cuts and low, thrusts and feints, the boy began combining things he’d been taught in ways Corin hadn’t imagined he’d figure out so quickly. And the blows came fast, forcing Corin to dodge more than he ever had before.
Conan’s effort made no difference. Corin never tried to attack, but concentrated on fending off his son’s blows. Whenever Conan tired, whenever he hesitated, the smith would bind his blade and shove him back, again and again spilling him to the ice.
“You are still all fire, boy.”
Snarling, Conan regained his feet. His eyes narrowed, his face tightened. He charged forward, his sword aimed to deal blow that would split a man up from down.
Corin ducked back. “No. Slow down. Find your footing!”
The blow’s vehemence spun Conan around, and Corin knocked the boy off his feet. He landed hard, but came back up, blade low, murder on his face.
“Enough.”
The boy came for him, not the least glimmer of reason in those blue eyes. Corin fended off two blows, then sent the boy flying back.
“Enough!” As the boy charged forward again, Corin stabbed the great sword into the ice. The sheath of ice began to crack. Muttering a brief prayer to Crom, Corin levered the blade forward. Ice shifted and split.
Conan, his charge unchecked, plunged into the shallow river.
At least he did not lose his sword. Corin shook his head slowly. “You are not ready for this sword.”
The boy, having dragged himself from the frigid water, looked up aghast. “But, Father . . .”
“The sword has been tempered, Conan. You have not been. All fire, no ice. You will not bend, so you will break.” Corin slid the great sword into its scabbard. “Someday you will be ready for this blade—worthy of it. Until that day, your possessing it would only get you killed.”
The boy shivered. “Does this mean you won’t train me anymore?”
Corin sighed. “No, my son, it means I have to train you even better.”
CHAPTER 6
CONAN, HIS LUNGS burning, cut around a large hut. Snow flew as he sprinted past a knot of giggling girls. He brushed off his brown tunic’s sleeves, ridding them of the last of some chicken feathers. He ducked under a skinned elk carcass, narrowly avoiding the loss of an ear as he dashed between the butchers.
Already he could hear his father’s voice from the heart of the village. “When a Cimmerian feels thirst, it is the thirst for blood.” Corin’s bass voice made those words into commands, yet Conan had heard them uttered as cautions. The same words he used to encourage the boys like Ardel he’d employed to focus Conan.
On the boy sprinted, weaving his way past warriors who sparred or sharpened swords. “When a Cimmerian feels cold, it is the cold edge of steel.”
For a heartbeat it surprised Conan that his father’s
words didn’t evoke the sense of having a sword in his hands. The boy smiled, just briefly, realizing that he had learned some of the lessons his father taught him. He caught his first adult glimmer of the depth of his father’s wisdom, and that drove him yet faster. He wanted to surprise his father, not disappoint him, for surprise and faithfulness to his teaching would earn Conan more responsibility and opportunity.
Ahead, a line of youths stood facing Corin. The smith held a small bowl from which he plucked turquoise eggs mottled with brown—raven’s eggs, which Conan himself had gathered as part of his chores earlier that week. Each young man opened his mouth, and Corin solemnly placed an egg on his tongue.
Conan dodged a lunging dog, then skidded to a snowy stop at the end of the line, his chest heaving. His father saw him, but gave no sign. Then he spoke. “But the courage of a Cimmerian is tempered. He neither fears death nor rushes foolishly to meet it.”
Conan bent forward, struggling to catch his breath. He cast a sidelong glance at the larger young men and could see they understood little of what his father was saying.
Corin gave the last youth an egg. “So, to be a Cimmerian warrior, you must have cunning and balance as well as strength and speed.”
Conan straightened up. His father had given him a long list of chores that morning, all of which were meant to eat up time. He sent him to chop wood for old Eiran, and requested that the old man dull his ax before Conan could do the job. And then Deirdre had wanted a chicken killed—not one of the ones in the coop, but the one that had escaped from it. So it went with tasks that had him crisscrossing the village—or would have had him doing this if he had not realized that they could be done with a greater economy of effort. Cunning won the day that strength and speed alone could not.
Corin looked at his son. “I gave you chores, boy.”
“Finished, Father.” Conan could not help but smile.
The smith regarded the others. “The first to circle the hills and return, his egg unbroken, earns the right to train with the warriors.”