The Conan Chronology Page 2

  'Yes, Father.' Conan’s head tipped forward, but he looked up through black locks with those icy blue eyes. 'It is just that I want to be ready to defend our village.'

  Corin raised an eyebrow. Aggressiveness that will be welcome in a warrior is a nettle in a headstrong son.

  Conan, well used to reading his father’s expression, said no more and set about his tasks.

  Corin, satisfied, returned to his.

  Conan's anger with his father had all but dissipated by the time he’d run far enough into the hills that the ringing of Corin’s hammer on the anvil could not longer be heard. In leaving the village, he’d almost picked up the stick, but his father’s suggestion that it was some sorcerer’s wand tainted it. Instead, armed only with a small skinning knife, Conan departed on his appointed chores, running across snowy fields and up into the forested hillsides of Cimmeria.

  His father’s suggestion that it would be some time before he became a warrior melted beneath the intensity of his youthful fantasy. Out in the forest, away from the bemused smiles and sharp glances of adults, Conan grew into the man he knew he would become. Though already tall for his age, he grew taller. His arms and legs became as stout as his father’s and twice as powerful. His effortless stride ate up yards, and by the time he vanished within the trees, his transformation was complete.

  No longer was he Conan the smith’s son, sent to gather rabbits from snares. No, he’d become a full warrior. He didn’t seek puny animals, but greater prey. Somewhere in the forests there might be Pictish scouts―Raven Clan or Otter, perhaps―probing Cimmerian lands before a raid. Or, worse, Aquilonians could have again come north, pushing their borders into lands on which they had no claim. His grandfather had fought them at Brita’s Vale, and he always said they’d return. Perhaps that was the more realistic threat.

  It really didn’t matter which to Conan. Either required him to move swiftly and quietly through the forest, stepping carefully so the crunch of snow underfoot would not betray him. He moved from point to point, slid down into the windblown bowl around evergreen trunks, and peered through snow-laden boughs at the forest around him. He watched the shadows, because in them you could see the Picts; and he listened, because the clanking of the Aquilonians’ armour would betray their presence.

  Though Conan knew he was playing at a game, for him it became so much more. The child delighted in the thrill of seeing something half hidden in snow and transforming it in his mind into a Pictish ambush. But the part of 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 honour 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 wolf-skin 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 re-entered 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 travelled 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 honour. The stories made it clear that the personal sense of honour 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 civilised men dare trespass here, then, by Crom, will I make them pay.'

  II

  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 ba
nging 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.

  Conan stretched his legs out.

  Corin finished his stew and started in on Conan’s bowl.

  The Cimmerian boy’s foot twitched, betraying impatience. But it wasn’t until Conan’s head began to sink, his shoulders rise, and glower to deepen that Corin relented and turned toward his son. 'So you want to know how this stew could kill someone?'

  Conan nodded.

  'Not counting poison, the stew would kill the way it is killing you now.' Corin pushed the bowl toward Conan’s place at the table. 'By not having any.'

  The boy frowned.

  'When you hear stories about our destroying the Aquilonians at Brita’s Vale, what do you remember?'

  Conan’s face brightened. 'How Connacht slew a centurion and scattered a whole legion of knights.'

  'Of course.' Corin shook his head. 'Don’t you remember what came before? Why were the Aquilonians at Brita’s Vale?'

  'The Cimmerians forced them there to fight. They knew they were doomed, so they formed up to defend themselves.'

  'Good, now I want you to do something, Conan, something very important.'

  'Yes?'

  'You’ve thrilled to my father’s stories as a child. I did the same when I was your age. But now I want you to think of the story with a man’s mind.' Corin closed his eyes for a moment, remembering when he had learned what he hoped Conan would now learn, and wishing that it had been his father who encouraged him to learn the lesson. 'The Aquilonians had come north to punish Cimmerians for raiding along the frontier. They burned villages and slaughtered people as they came north. They were invincible until they reached the vale. How did they become vulnerable?'

  The boy’s mouth opened for a heartbeat, but shut quickly enough. Blue eyes flashed warily. Conan’s face became an iron mask of concentration, and Corin felt pride blossom in his breast. In that moment he saw the man his son could become, and he hoped he had the patience and strength to aid him on that journey.

  Conan’s gaze darted toward the stew. 'Your father described raids on the supply trains coming to aid the Aquilonians. The Cimmerians took away their stew. They killed their reinforcements. They starved them of men, iron, and food. The Aquilonians could go no further.'

  'Very good, Conan, very good.' Corin toed the bench away from the side of the table. 'Come, finish your dinner and get more.'

  The boy, smiling, sprang to his seat and devoured the stew. Corin let him finish what was left of the bowl in silence, then began talking as Conan returned with a second helping.

  'You must understand, son, that many a battle is won before the first arrow flies or the first sword is drawn. Brita’s Vale was a close-won battle. The Aquilonian general had chosen his position well. Had his troops been a little less hungry, ’twould be some noble’s villa on this very spot. The Aquilonians knew us as we know them . . . and to engage any enemy without knowing him is folly.'

  Conan glanced over, then nodded. 'Father?'

  'Yes?'

  'Why did you never go raiding as your father did?'

  'Are you suggesting I did not have the courage to go?'

  The boy’s spoon plopped back into the stew. 'No, Father, no. I’ve heard the stories. Everyone says you are a great warrior, that just knowing Corin lives in this village is what keeps our enemies at bay. It is just that . . .'

  The smith reached out with a scarred hand and gave his son’s forearm a squeeze. 'I heard no disrespect in your voice, my son. And, like you, the tales of my father’s adventures certainly filled my dreams. But I think I am a more practical man than my father. This is why I am a smith. I can take ore and smelt it. I can pour it into a mould. I can fire it and hammer it and temper it. I can test it and sharpen it. I can shape it into something which is real and is useful. I make things which allow others to live their lives more easily.'

  The elder Cimmerian smiled. 'For all the stories of treasure and glory, have you seen a single gem in my father’s possession? A medal from some distant potentate? A proclamation from some king thanking him? No. But there is not a single man in this village who does not carry steel I shaped for him. I am content in knowing that I keep this village safe. It is my duty, and a duty I take most seriously.'

  'But, you know things of war. You could be a great war leader.'

  Corin sat back and laughed. 'There is one tale of Aquilonia which my father used to tell, but I do not think you have heard it. When a general wins a great victory, they parade him through Tarantia in a chariot of gold, drawn by eight white stallions. Throngs line the streets. They throw flowers and gold and offer him their daughters. Everyone adores him.'

  Conan’s eyes brightened. He sat forward, his unfinished stew forgotten.

  'But in that chariot, nestled at his feet, is a dwarf. Throughout that parade, through the showers of gold and flowers, the dwarf says but one thing over and over again. ‘Remember thou art but a man. As you have slain, so shall you be slain. Glory is fleeting, and you will be but a ghost in a scroll which will turn to dust before you are ever remembered.’ '

  Conan’s expression of rapture dissolved into a look of confusion. 'But that makes no sense. Crom wishes us to be brave and fierce. It is for this that we live.'

  Corin nodded. 'So, you know the tale of Brita’s Vale. You know its heroes.'

  'Of course.'

  'And what of the time before that when we threw the Gundermen back into Aquilonia?'

  'I . . .'

  'Or the time before that?'

  Conan sat straight up and pounded a fist on the table. 'No one will ever forget Conan, son of Corin!'

  Unable to contain his pride, Corin laughed heartily, then clapped his son on both shoulders. 'By Crom, that is a declaration I believe even the gods will
honour. Now finish your stew.'

  As his son returned to eating, Corin got up and crossed the small hut. He reached up and pulled a cloth-wrapped package from atop a rafter, then returned and laid it on the table. 'While you were dreaming of glories, I made this for you. Ah, no, finish your meal first.'

  There could be no mistaking what lay within the grey woollen wrapping. Long and slender, with the obvious projection of a cross hilt, it had to be a sword. Not a great sword or a long sword, but more than a knife.

  Conan, showing more restraint than his father would have credited him with, finished the stew, then gathered both bowls and the wooden spoons with which they’d eaten and set them in a bucket. He looked expectantly at his father, clearly willing to do the washing up if the order would be given. Corin hesitated for a moment, then shook his head and smiled.

  'Open it.'

  Conan lifted the sword in his hand, hefting the weapon before its unveiling. Then, slowly, with the same care Connacht had described using when unwrapping a harem wench in Koth, Conan freed the sword from its confines. With a steel blade half again the length of the youth’s forearm, a bronze cross hilt and pommel, and a leather-wrapped grip, it clearly was no toy. Though the edges remained dull, and the tip rounded, if needed to kill a man, it would suffice.

  Conan reached for the hilt, then hesitated, looking at his father.

  Corin nodded. 'Understand some things. I hammered this from an Aquilonian short sword a scavenger dug out of Brita’s Vale. It’s not Cimmerian steel―you’ll earn that―but it is better than a stick for practising.'

  The youth nodded, lifting the blade, slowly moving it around in lazy circles. He only half listened to his father―Corin really had expected nothing less. The smith knew he would be repeating the rules to his son many times, and that more than once he’d have to take the blade away from him to instil discipline. Still, the care with which the boy studied the weapon’s weight pleased him. Any other boy―including those being trained by the warriors―would have first looked for something to cut, then would have run into the middle of the room, fighting phantoms and shadows.