Conan the Barbarian

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.”

The young men broke ranks and sprinted in a pack for the hills.

Conan watched them go, astonishment slackening his jaw.

Corin peered into the bowl, then tossed his son an egg. “By Crom, boy, what are you waiting for?”

Conan popped the egg into his mouth and ran off, letting his shock and anger speed him. As he pressed to catch up, he saw the first of the others slip and fall, broken yolk and blue shell staining his chin. The young man spat disgustedly and tossed snow at the boy who had knocked him down, but the others did not notice.

Cunning. Tempering. Conan’s blue eyes narrowed. The race wasn’t just about speed, but about completing the circuit with the egg intact. The boy who fell, had he not broken the egg, could have gotten back up again. So the egg is everyone’s weakness.

Ardel, never having been the swiftest of the youths his age, had also figured this out. As he and others worked their way up the hills, then along the grand circuit, he jostled the competition. He swept one boy’s legs, plunging him face-first into the snow. Egg erupted from his mouth. Ardel even swung a fist at Conan, but the younger boy ducked.

Cunning. While the other boys smashed against one another, Conan cut off the trail. The extra duties his father had assigned to him over the winter had given him a familiarity with the area that none of the others came close to possessing. He leaped over rocks and ducked beneath fallen trees. He cut diagonally across a hillside, using saplings to slow and redirect himself. When he returned to the trail, he’d passed the largest boys. He raced ahead, leaping and cutting, their snarls forcing him to smile.

Then he caught it. Movement through the forest around them, pacing them. For a moment he thought wolves might have come hunting them, so quickly and furtively did the figures move from shadow to shadow. Then he caught a flash of foot here, a hand there, a motion only a man could make.

He slowed, instinctively raising a hand to warn the others. Picts!

The other boys stopped dead. One of them cried out, then choked on his egg. As four Pictish scouts, heads shaved at the sides, hair stiffed with porcupine quills, emerged from the forest, the other boys turned and ran.

Conan, his nostrils flaring, stood his ground, balling his fists.

A bola whirled in one Pict’s hands. It spun through the air, the leather laces tangling Conan’s ankles, drawing them together and dumping him to the ground. The boy turned over, wiping snow from his face, as the quartet of Picts drew slowly toward him. They didn’t seem to fear him—rather, they viewed him as more of a curiosity than anything else, and this dismissal kindled anger in Conan’s heart.

Conan looked past their tribal paint and the double axes they bore. Their wariness came tinged with weariness. The Picts were far from home, had no supplies, and had a haunted look on their faces. They had no idea what to make of him, and began discussing his fate in their harsh tongue.

One pointed back toward the south, then again to the west and the Pictish homelands. The others