Conan the Barbarian

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.

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.

I have to show him. Conan looked out from around the tree again as Ardel and his patrol plodded along a game trail. The boy smiled, and removed the satchel in which he’d placed a grouse that had been caught by a deadfall trap. He looped the strap over a low branch, then took a handful of snow and packed it down into a ball. He made two more, then slipped from his hiding place.

Remaining low, he moved quickly to a spot beneath the ridgeline, and came upon a rocky outcropping that overlooked the trail. The rocks hid him from the trail below. As Ardel started up and made the turn where the trail switched back, Conan popped up and hurled the first snowball. Ardel, who had slipped for a moment, looked up at the last second. The white explosion obliterated his florid expression.

“It’s Picts. We’re under attack!”

Conan rose again and threw. The second snowball caught another boy in the side of the head. He’d already begun to turn back down the trail. Unbalanced, he toppled into another youth. They went down in a tangle of limbs, falling off the trail and rolling deeper into the ravine.

“Picts! Picts!” Ardel’s orderly band dissolved amid the panic.

Conan, ducking back, and barely able to contain his laughter, gave the call of a raven in the Pictish manner. The sound alone prompted more shrieks, which grew fainter as the youths ran off, back toward the village. Conan chased them with another raven’s call, then sat in the snow and laughed.

. . . Until he heard a raven’s call himself.

He froze, pressing himself back against the stones. Wary eyes studied his surroundings. Nothing moved. The air remained still, sunlight through trees dappling the snow with white stripes and spots. As far as Conan could see, the snow remained undisturbed save for his footprints and those of Ardel’s troupe.

That does not mean they are not out there. Conan rested his left hand on his sword’s hilt for reassurance, then hunkered down into a crouch. He wanted to go back for his grouse, but that would involve backtracking. That could lead to an ambush. That realization sent a jolt through him.

He swallowed hard, then took a single step forward.

A raven called again.

Conan looked up to the right.

The large black bird eyed him coldly.

“Are you just a crow, or has a god sent you to watch me?” Conan spoke to smother the spark of fear in his breast, realizing he was speaking as his grandfather did while storytelling. “Which is it?”

The bird, or the god who had sent it, became bored. The raven called once again, then opened its black wings and took to the sky.

Still cautious despite being confident he was alone, Conan circled around to he tree where he had hung the grouse and recovered it. He then went down the hill and cut across the trail Ardel’s war band had blazed through the snow. What had been amusement at how easily they had panicked turned to disgust, since they made no attempt to hide their trail or deceive trackers. They headed straight for the village.

Conan paralleled their track, watching to make certain he was not being followed. He only emerged from the forest and followed it after the village’s alarm bell tolled. By the time he reached the last hillcrest, a group of warriors had started out, with Ardel guiding them.

And my father leading the way!

Conan ran down the hill and Corin dropped to a knee. “Thank Crom you’re unhurt, Conan. You are unhurt, yes?”

“Completely, Father.”

Corin stood. “Ardel, take Conan back to the village. We can find the Picts on our own from here.”

Conan laughed. “There are no Picts, Father.”

Ardel’s piggish brown eyes blazed. “Yes, there were. A war band. At least a dozen. The Raven Clan. They ambushed us.”

Corin caught his son by the shoulders. “What do you know of this?”

“I saw them skulking through the forest, Father. I threw some snowballs and called like a Raven. They went running off.”

“He lies.” Ardel thumped a fist against his chest. “I know what I saw. I would not run from a child.”

Corin released his son. “The trail will tell us what happened. Mahon and Senan, scout ahead. Ardel, you and your friends can return to the village. The rest of us will wait here.”

Conan smiled as the older boys headed back down the hill. They retreated, but he was left to wait with his father and the rest of the warriors. As it should be.

“Conan.”

“Yes, Father?” Conan looked out toward the two scouts. “I wasn’t lying.”

His father nodded solemnly. “I didn’t expect you were. What was the job I gave you this morning?”

“To check the trapline.”

“And how does that include tracking and harassing Ardel and the others?”

“It doesn’t, Father.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Corin shook his head, his shoulders slumping with evident embarrassment. “Take a look around, Conan. Two dozen men summoned to hold off a Pict war band so the others can prepare to defend our village. All because you decided to play a joke.”

“Yes, Father.”

“So, you will go back to the village. You’ll go to each of their homes, and you’ll complete the task they would have been doing but for your foolishness. You’ll muck out stables. You’ll chop wood. You’ll haul water. You’ll do what they need.” Corin’s head came up. “And not a one of you will let him off lightly. My son wishes to be a man, to abandon childhood. He’ll not escape punishment because he is a child. Do you understand?”

Each of the warriors nodded grimly. Conan felt himself shrinking at the heart of that circle. He wanted so badly to fulfill his destiny as a man, as a Cimmerian, and yet he had diminished himself in all of their eyes. His stomach knotted up and his throat closed. Tears, born of frustration and shame, brimmed in his eyes, but he refused to let one fall.

“Conan, go, get to those chores.”

He nodded, his voice tight and hoarse. “Yes, Father.”

“And, Conan . . .” His father held out a hand. “Your sword.”

THE SUN HAD been asleep for three hours by the time Conan returned to his home. His father sat at their table. A bowl of cold stew waited for him, but the boy felt no hunger. He’d flown from the hill, thankful that no one could see the tears glistening on his face. He even let himself fall once, face-first, into the snow, so he could rise and rub away any telltale tear tracks. He’d done all the chores and then some, hoping that his effort might earn him back the sword.

But deep in his heart he feared he had lost it forever.

“Sit, Conan.”

The boy sank to his knees near the door and studied the floorboards. “I am not hungry, Father.”

“You don’t have to eat, just listen.”

“I understand what happened. I understand why you punished me.”

“You’ll need to understand more than that, my son, if you ever want to wield that sword again.”

Conan dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the bench. “I did everything you asked, Father.”

“I know. And more.” Corin nodded, stroking his beard. “As I expected. And you should know that there was not a single man who did not tell me, one way or another, that I was being too hard on you. Imagine. Cimmerians suggesting that.”

Conan wanted to smile, but mirth eluded him.

“Do you know why they did that, son?”

The boy shook his head.

“They expect big things of you, Conan. You were born on a battlefield. They see you as destined for great things.” Corin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And do you know why I push you as hard as I do?”

“Because I was born on a battlefield?”

“No. Because your mother saw you as destined for greater things.”