concentrated and made this thing of power. A mask. And they gave it to their god-king or whatever they called him. He and his hordes cut a swath . . . well, from what you and Aidan said, you know. But imagine kingdoms falling, Conan. Nations just wiped from the face of creation.”
The boy nodded, watching his grandfather’s face for any hint of a lie. He spooned stew into his mouth, chewing unconsciously, wiping the spillage on the back of his hand.
“As the tales would have it, men from the north took exception to the rise of Acheron. Was a close thing, but armies from across the world banded together, and led by northerners, they shattered Acheron’s power. They took the mask and broke it into parts. Each contingent got one and hid it away. They hoped no one would ever be able to assemble it and create such misery again.”
Conan crunched a piece of gristle. “How could anyone know of the mask?”
“You’ll find, boy, that there are always people nosing about in places they shouldn’t, learning things not meant to be learned, and then developing quite a problem keeping their mouths shut.” The old man grew silent for a moment, then grunted. “You’ll run afoul of a number of them in your life.”
Conan’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth. “Are you now a seer?”
“No, I just benefit from having seen much.” Connacht shook his head. “People seek power, and there are some who hunt for Acheron’s secrets. Your Klarzin might be one. Have to hope if he’s up to deviltry, the devils will take him before he can shed more blood.”
“Not devils he has to worry about.” Conan handed the empty bowl to his grandfather. “More, please. And a favor.”
Connacht returned from the hearth with more stew. “I’m your grandfather. What would you be having me do?”
Conan took a deep breath. “I cannot go and kill Klarzin.”
“Now you’ve returned to your senses.”
“I need your help. My father taught me much. You taught him more. I need to know it all.”
Connacht raised an eyebrow. “Even knowing all I taught him didn’t keep your father alive.”
“If you will not teach me, I will find another swordmaster.”
The old man thought for a moment. “There is no dissuading you?”
“I will have my vengeance.”
“You’ll do everything I say, as I tell you to do it?”
Conan sighed, hearing his father’s words come out of his grandfather’s mouth. “Exactly.”
“Very well. In another week we’ll begin.” Connacht stood. “Finish your stew, then sleep. Sleep as much as you can. When you become my student, you’ll have no time at all for that nonsense.”
Had Conan entertained the thought that his grandfather was joking, the old man disabused him of the notion immediately. He established a routine that had Conan waking before dawn, crawling into bed well into the evening, and if the boy stood still at all, it would only be during some odd exercise to build strength or maintain balance. Very little of his training actually included holding a sword in hand, which irked the boy until he figured out what his grandfather was doing.
For the first two weeks, things focused on his getting his strength and endurance back, as well as keeping his hands healthy. Conan had always been slender, but his illness had reduced him to skin and bones. Connacht had him hauling water, shifting stones, running ever-longer distances, then having him sprint—all the while increasing his weight by adding rock-filled pouches or bits and pieces of old armor to his attire.
The greatest care was lavished on Conan’s hands. The blisters had long since burst and the infection had been defeated. His grandfather mixed up a foul-smelling unguent out of fish meat, bear grease, and a variety of dried roots and leaves, then had the boy work it into his palms. Conan continued to wrap his hands and don gloves for anything involving lifting. Connacht also forced him to flex his hands hundreds of times throughout the day.
“You’ll always carry scars from that day, Conan, but you can’t be crippled by them.”
The combat drills Conan hungered for came at last, but not in the way he’d been expecting. His grandfather still wouldn’t let him touch a sword. “Sword’s just a metal sting. A warrior’s weapon is his body. Can’t use that, doesn’t matter how sharp the sword.”
The old man then proceeded to teach his grandson every aspect of infighting that he’d learned from a lifetime of adventuring and brawling—and Conan suspected that he made up a few on the spot. Connacht, despite being four times his grandson’s age, tossed him around as if he were a raggedy doll. Conan vaguely remembered having accused his father of not fighting fairly, but Corin had been the soul of sportsmanship compared to his father. Kicks, punches, head butts, and elbow strikes knocked Conan all over the yard before the hut.
Connacht even bit him once!
Conan would have protested, but he remembered Klarzin parrying his sword cut, then kicking him full in the chest. Corin had been right. Fighters might talk about fighting fairly, but in their storytelling they left out certain details. He couldn’t remember a single of his grandfather’s stories that included his having bitten anyone, but the old man was a bit too practiced at it to even suggest that it had never happened.
Conan gave back as much as he could, and occasionally landed a fist or a kick on his grandfather. He never hurt him, though, but not because he pulled his punches. Connacht still moved quickly enough to slip most blows, and certainly knew enough to anticipate Conan’s next moves. Still, as the weeks wore on, Conan’s hits became more consistent than misses, and his ability to block attacks improved greatly.
One day Connacht called a sudden halt to their fighting. “Good. You’ve learned well.”
Conan, doubled over, catching his breath, glanced up. “Is this how you taught my father?”
“Corin, the size of him? No. I had a different way with him.” The old man straightened up. “I want you to haul twenty buckets of water from the river to fill the cistern, then I have one more thing for you. Accomplish that task, and tomorrow we begin working with a sword.”
Conan smiled and ran off. The sooner he perfected his sword fighting, the sooner he’d be able to avenge his village. While thoughts of revenge filled his mind, he hauled water and saw nothing of his grandfather. He did hear some pounding from within the hut, but attached no significance to it.
Finally the cistern brimmed over and Conan returned the buckets to their place near the small forge his grandfather maintained. The young Cimmerian stepped into the hut and found his grandfather sitting by the hearth. The meager furnishings had been cleared out of the center. An iron plate had been bolted to the floor and four feet of heavy chain attached to it. The chain ended in an iron shackle.
Connacht nodded to it. “Put your right ankle in there. Lock it shut.”
The young man sat on the floor and secured the shackle around his ankle.
His grandfather got up, took Conan’s sword from where it hung on the wall, and stood beside the doorway. “You’re a good fighter, Conan. You learn quickly. You’re determined to go after Klarzin, aren’t you?”
Conan nodded.
“There’s nothing anyone could do to stop you, is there?”
The boy shook his head.
Connacht tossed Conan’s sword out into the yard. “Go get your sword. When you get it, you’ll be ready to get Klarzin.”
CHAPTER 10
CONAN STARED AT his grandfather, waiting for an explanation.
Connacht walked out the doorway and let the hide flap slide across to eclipse the sun.
The young Cimmerian shook his leg. The heavy chain dragged at the shackle, digging into his ankle and grinding against bone. He grabbed the chain and tugged, hard, but it didn’t give at all. More importantly, the short chain didn’t allow him to move to where he could brace himself against something to use his legs in trying to pull free. The best he could do was to lay a foot on the eyebolt sunk into the middle of the plate, but unless he could snap the chain, that effort would be useless. And without some leverage, actually ripping the plate out of the floor wouldn’t work.
On hands and knees he crawled over and looked at the plate, chain, and eyebolt. All were solid steel and without being softened in the forge’s fire, they’d resist his efforts to break them. He examined each link in the chain, but could find no weak ones. He rubbed a link against the plate’s edge, but his grandfather had rounded off the
