Conan the Barbarian

him that was closer to being a man narrowed his eyes and looked past the fantasy. He watched to see why he’d thought a Pict might be lurking, then studied the land to make certain it was no illusion.

None of the other children in his village had that intensity. For that reason they seldom invited Conan to join in their games of make-believe. Elders had said, and children had passed on their words, that Conan had an old soul and a vital one. They all knew why.

I was born on a battlefield.

For so many, that fact defined Conan and set their expectations of him. He was destined to be a great warrior, and he wanted to prove himself worthy of that destiny. His mother had died there, giving him birth. Though he had no memory of her, he had been told that with her last breath, she had given him his name. His greatness would honor her and his family, perhaps even all of Cimmeria. The name Conan would strike fear into the hearts of Picts, Aquilonians, Vanirmen, and anyone else who believed Cimmeria could be theirs.

The youth slipped from behind a tree, carefully watching his back trail. Moving from point to point, he worked his way over to a rock wall. He could have easily followed the game trail at its base, working around and up the hillside to the top, but instead he leaped up. His fingers caught a handhold, but only for a second, then he tumbled down into the snow.

Another child might have laughed, but nothing about failure amused the young Cimmerian. He rolled to his feet again, brushing snow from his wolfskin cloak. He eschewed using the footholds that had started him up the rock wall before. He leaped again, caught the rock, and clung to it fiercely with his right hand. He steadied himself with his left hand, then began his ascent. Keen eyes picked out a clear path, and in less time than it would have taken him to follow the game trail, he reached the top.

And I have left no sign of my passing. He smiled, then shrugged. Aside from that hole my bottom dug.

The forest opened before him, revealing a long oval meadow split by the dark scar of a stream. Conan kept to the forest’s edge, studying the expanse of largely undisturbed snow. When he came close to a set of tracks, he’d crouch and study them. He looked not only to see which animals had passed that way, but how the tracks changed over time. Years of study enabled him to read sign both of men and animals. Had Picts or anyone else been through the area, he would have known how many and how long ago they had passed.

Though no invaders had marched through the meadow, small game had. Conan checked the dozen snares set around the area and gathered two hares. Both appeared to be dead, caught by the neck in a loop of sinew. He broke their necks to be sure, then gutted them, tossing the entrails out where eagles and hawks might feast. He reset the snares, and moved two others closer to trails that led to the stream.

The quickest way back home would have been the path he chose to reach the meadow, but that way was barred to him. Not that any barrier had been erected, or that the cliff would have been too difficult to descend. Not that any invaders had taken up positions to ambush him. No, for Conan, that way would not work simply because to return by that same path would be careless. It would invite ambush. It could lead an enemy to his home, and it was the duty of every warrior to see that such a thing never happened.

Conan continued through the woods. He’d left his village to the north, and two days earlier he’d reentered from the east. This time he turned west, working his way through the forest. He paused on a hilltop that overlooked the trade road running toward the setting sun. He had traveled on it a short ways previously, before turning north to visit his grandfather, but today the empty road held no interest for him.

Instead he looked beyond it, toward the mountains to the south, and the lands beyond. The name Aquilonia had become common enough that it no longer inspired overwhelming awe when he heard it. But places like Ophir and Koth and Shem, dark Stygia and far Khitai . . . all of them sounded so exotic. Men had always said that his grandfather was a great warrior; but they also said he was a greater storyteller, and in his tales these places to which he had roamed, in which he had raided, became miraculous realms of wonder.

Of course, being eleven years old, Conan knew that his grandfather exaggerated. After all, it was not possible that a place like Shem might exist, a place so hot year-round that it never saw snow, and where the sand itself rose in great blizzards. Or that uncharted jungles, teeming with feral, manlike beasts and horrors from before time, might exist—this just was not possible. Those were stories to scare children and slacken the jaws of the foolish. Conan had grown beyond such wild tales.

What fascinated him about old Connacht’s stories had been the people and their odd ways. Conan wondered at their need for legions of gods and for massive temples raised in their honor. The stories made it clear that the personal sense of honor that each Cimmerian treasured was but a commodity to be bought and sold—quite cheaply, too—in the land beyond the southern hills. He would never call his grandfather a liar, but a part of him would never believe until he had seen those things for himself.

The Cimmerian youth drew himself up and smiled as he looked south. He would be a warrior. As Crom wished, he would make the most of the courage and wit with which he was born. He would use them to protect his homeland.

“And,” he said to the wind, “if civilized men dare trespass here, then, by Crom, will I make them pay.”

CHAPTER 2

CORIN DID NOT look back from where he squatted at the hearth. “Was it Picts this time, Conan, or shining knights of Aquilonia?”

The crack of the door banging shut almost eclipsed Conan’s sigh. “I was being careful.”

“Practice, or was there reason?”

The boy set the rabbits on the table at the hearth’s far side. “If I had seen anything, I would have told you.”

Corin smiled and stirred the cauldron of stew hanging over the fire. “You can hang them up, let them season a day or three. Ronan’s eldest speared a buck. They gave me a down payment on a sword for him. I’ve cut some up, added it to the stew.”

“Ardel is going to get a sword?” Conan snorted and tied the rabbits’ hind paws together. “The buck must have been trapped in a snowdrift.”

“Ardel may be slow, but he throws a spear well.”

“Cimmerians are swordsmen.”

“And what if a Cimmerian loses his sword?”

Conan’s eyes tightened as he hung the rabbits from a peg near the door. “He would sooner die than do that.”

“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.