Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

He grabbed the chain and smashed it against the floor several times, relishing the din. He pulled at it some more, then slumped onto his side and curled up around his empty belly to sleep.

He awoke in the middle of the night and looked around, but nothing had changed. His grandfather had not slipped into the hut to take his bunk. He’d not brought the boy a sleeping hide, or water, or any sort of food. Conan rubbed his hands together, as he might have done to work his grandfather’s salve into the scars. He grabbed the chain, intent on yanking it, but saw the futility of this and stopped. He let the chain slip from his hands and fell back to sleep.

He awoke with the dawn and found a bowl of water within reach at the far side of the chain’s range. He leaped toward it, crouching, then watched, wary. The door flap had been pulled back. He imagined his grandfather waiting for him to begin drinking before he sprang in and beat him with a stick. Or maybe the water is not good water, and will make me sick. He waited, watchful, but burning thirst convinced him to hook the bowl with a finger and pull it within reach. He retreated to the hut’s rear wall and drank carefully. He made sure no water slopped down his chest.

Before he knew it, the water was gone.

He thought about smashing the bowl or hurling it out the doorway, but he didn’t give in to the impulse. His grandfather might not give him another bowl. Instead he placed it back on the spot where he’d found it, then returned to where he’d slept. He shook his bound leg a couple of times, but the chain had become no less strong, and he’d become weaker. He didn’t intend to doze, but he did, and awoke to see his grandfather sitting on a stool just inside the doorway.

“Do you want to be free, boy?”

Conan nodded.

“I don’t mean free of the chain.”

The young Cimmerian frowned. “What?”

Connacht pointed at the chain. “That chain is revenge. It’s Klarzin. If your goal is to become the man who can destroy him, you might succeed. But he will destroy your life. Because the man who could defeat him needs to be the man who will learn to fight out in my yard there. The boy who remains trapped will never be that man.”

“But he killed my father. He killed your son .”

Connacht nodded. “I know. Blood calls for blood. But blood feuds never solve anything. You know why I live here, in the north, away from others, even though I’m from the tribes of the south, yes?”

Conan shook his head.

“A blood feud. Spirits, a spirited girl, and hot words led to blood flowing. I killed a few more of those who wanted revenge, but they would never stop coming. So I walked away.”

“But Klarzin is not a Cimmerian. It won’t be like killing one of our own.”

“But all you will become is the man who knows how to kill Klarzin, which means you have no use after you’ve done that.” His grandfather shook his head. “Since you were born, we knew you were destined for great things. I’d rather see you die here of starvation, chained to the floor, than for you to hobble yourself because of some idea that you will avenge your father. It won’t bring him back. It won’t bring any of them back. It won’t even make them feel better about dying. And you will have wasted your life.”

Conan’s chin came up defiantly. “So the man who killed my father and destroyed my village is allowed to live as if he did nothing?”

“You haven’t listened to me.” The old man glanced out toward the yard. “I told you, out there you will learn what it takes to kill this man. You will learn what it takes to kill any man—which makes you very useful. And in the big world, you will see many wonders, and have many adventures, that will make you forget Klarzin. Imagine that instead of him and his horde, it had been an avalanche that wiped out your village while you were hunting. Would you go to war against it? Would you look to slay avalanches or mountains?”

“I will never forget him.”

“And you would never forget the avalanche, but you wouldn’t spend your life hunting avalanches. You would learn to spot them, you would learn to deal with them, to survive them. You would make sure that an avalanche would never hurt you again. If you could, you would act to stop an avalanche from hurting others. But vengeance? Life is too vast to allow it to be focused on so tiny a thing. You want to live, to slay, to love; these are what you want, not to hunt down a single man who likely has no more memory of you and your village than you do of the first snowflake you ever caught on your tongue.”

Conan snarled and kicked out. The chain rattled, but the weight and the grinding against his anklebones underscored the reality of his grandfather’s words. As much as he wanted to dismiss them as nonsense, the chain reminded him of how limited his goal really was.

“What if I find him, Grandfather? What if our paths cross?”

The old man smiled venomously. “Then the man who killed my son will admire the training I gave my grandson. Klarzin’s life will splash in red rivers from his rent body. You’ll kill his demon-spawn daughter, too . . . and the world will be better for it. To be able to make that all happen, Conan, you will have to learn some lessons. Very important lessons.”

The boy frowned. I want Klarzin dead, but I am not yet the man who can kill him. He nodded slowly.

Connacht stood. “That decision is the first you’ve made as a man.”

Conan looked up. “How does a man get out of a shackle?”

His grandfather laughed. “Depends on the shackle. Been caught by a few myself, never cared for it, especially when taken by slavers.” The old man tossed him a fist-size rock. “Now, that shackle there lets a tongue slide into the lock and catch in place. The key pulls the latch back.”

The boy looked at the rock. “This is not a key.”

“But the trick of this kind of shackle is that a small spring holds the latch in place. A sharp blow, right there beside the keyhole . . .”

Conan scooted forward, pulled his ankle in, and hit the shackle where his grandfather indicated. It took three tries before the shackle slipped a little, and two more before it gave enough to free his foot.

Connacht applauded. “If they do your wrists up with them, just slamming one shackle into the other usually works to have you out of them quickly.”

The youth smiled. “So, I have learned my first lesson.”

“No, Conan, that’s your second lesson.”

The boy frowned. “Then what is the . . . Oh.” He smiled. “Never stick yourself in a situation unless you know how you’re going to get out of it.”

“Very good, though I expect you’ll need to be reminded of that lesson from time to time.” Connacht stroked his own unshaven chin. “And there are more shackles I’ll teach you to escape from. I suspect you’ll find that information useful.”

Steadying himself against the wall, Conan stood. “Fine. I will learn everything you would teach me. But please, out in the yard.” He brushed the chain aside with a foot. “I am done with children’s games.”

CHAPTER 11

IN THE THREEyears Conan lived with his grandfather, the name Klarzin almost faded completely from his memory. The horrific acts that destroyed his village and slew his father did not. Sometimes they came back to him unbidden but consciously; in dreams and nightmares more often. The latter occurrences enhanced the surreal quality of that day and softened the sharpest of the memories. Had it not been for the traces of chain scars on his hands, he might have forgotten most all of it.

Connacht did not give the boy time to remember much of anything. He worked Conan hard, both because he was proud of his grandson, and because he felt guilty about Corin’s death, guilty that his son had been slain by outsiders. He’d centered the blame on Lucius, the Aquilonian, only because Aquilonians were familiar enemies, and because of Aquilonia’s proximity, the chances of avenging Corin were far greater.