Michael Stackpole - Conan the Barbarian

“That will be quite the undertaking for one man, Conan, even such as you. Let us come with you.”

The Cimmerian shook his head. “It is not your fight, Artus.”

“Either you are lying to me now, my brother, or you are lying to yourself.” Artus waved a hand toward the shore, which was but a distant black band beneath the starry sky. “You tell me that Khalar Zym must die and the mask must be shattered so he cannot raise Acheron. You claim preventing this is a responsibility you inherited through your father. But I ask you, were Khalar Zym to succeed, what would his empire mean to me, mean to this motley pack of sea wolves?

“One empire from mountains to sea, from ice to the Black Kingdoms? Would there be room for corsairs and adventurers? No, save perhaps in arenas where men die for the amusement of nobles. No freedom. No wealth to be won, no wenches to be bedded. My parents were slaves, but not I, and I shall die fighting Khalar Zym’s empire.”

The barbarian’s head ached. Conan could not tell if Artus was right, or if he’d been lying to himself and indulging in dreams of revenge. Ultimately it did not matter, because either answer still pointed to the same necessities.

“You are wise, Artus, perhaps wiser than I.” Conan exhaled heavily. “You can help me, but it will not be by traveling with me.”

Artus folded his hands over his chest. “Go on.”

“If I fail, the girl must be hidden in Hyrkania and the world must know the danger it faces. Upon you I rely for both of those things.”

The Zingaran’s expression tightened. “You cannot assault Khor Kalba alone.”

“I don’t intend to go alone. And I don’t intend to make an assault.” Conan smiled. “Remember, Artus, before either of us were pirates, we were both thieves. A thief will do what pirates can’t . . . and pirates will be free to save the world.”

CHAPTER 25

CONAN STOOD ONthe main deck a day later, the sword in his hand whistling through the air. He’d lost his sword at the Shaipur outpost. The Hornet ’s armory boasted a fine selection of weapons plundered from the world over. As sailors were wont to do, they wagered on which they thought the Cimmerian might choose.

He tried a half dozen, almost instantly rejecting anything saberlike that resembled Khalar Zym’s sword. While the sabers were fine weapons, and curved cutlasses worked well aboard ship, both served best when the fighting allowed for grand slashes. He wanted more reach than afforded by an Aquilonian short sword. The closest blade they had to the one he lost needed a new grip. Finally he settled on a long sword, which gained in length what it surrendered in width. Had this been my blade at Shaipur, I might have spitted him.

Conan studied the blade once more, then turned to face Artus. “Raise an edge on it, open the toe of my scabbard so it fits, and I am set.”

Artus smiled and accepted a small pouch of gold coins from the first mate. “I thought that might be it.”

“And ’twas your teeth that gnawed the grip on the broadsword.”

The Zingaran shrugged. “Tang was weak and cross hilt too small.”

“True.” Conan smiled. “Artus, I had him. So very close.”

“The gods were not amused enough.” The corsair’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain you’re well enough to go after him?”

Conan spread his arms wide, stretching massive chest muscles. “I will be fine by the time the gods are amused enough to blow us to the coast. I swear, Artus, you are as bad as Tamara.”

“I care for you as a brother, Conan. She cares as well.” Artus smiled easily. “You saved her life.”

“And she mine.” Conan shook his head. “You must promise me she will be safe, Artus.”

“I will not disappoint you. Still . . .”

“Yes?”

“There is no reason you cannot get her to Hyrkania and await Khalar Zym there.” Artus held a hand up. “No, Conan, do not try to convince me this is the only way. He needs her. He will pursue her.”

The Cimmerian shook his head. “I am not one to lie in wait, Artus, you know that.”

“True, but if a brother may point out the obvious to a brother, you seem to run faster from her than toward him.”

Conan growled at Artus, but before he could say anything, Tamara appeared from belowdecks, adorned in bright red and blue silks. She wore a broad smile.

The Cimmerian snapped at her. “You look like a harlot.”

Her eyes flashed. “Yes, and apparently I’m the only woman you have met who isn’t one!”

Conan stared at her for a heartbeat, then turned away, his new sword singing through the air. One sailor laughed and the Cimmerian spun, looking at him over a yard of steel. “Artus, give her leather and armor. She handles herself better in a fight than you scum. Keep civil tongues in your heads and you may live long enough to see the proof.”

TAMARA LOOKED AFTERthe withdrawing barbarian, then to Artus. “I don’t understand.”

Artus perched himself on the rail as Conan climbed up to the wheel deck and disappeared from sight. “Most people look at him, a northern barbarian, and they think he’s simple. And ’tis true that strong currents run through him. When action’s demanded, he’s the man who acts instead of thinking . . . but he’s cunning, too. I’ve seen that over my time with him, and it’s that time, going on a decade here and there, that maybe lets me see.”

She pressed a hand to her throat. “Then perhaps you can enlighten me. The Conan I’ve seen has the constitution of a bull and the disposition of a mule. He’s fearsome in combat and yet capable of . . . Khalar Zym’s aide, the one we captured, Conan snapped his neck as if it was nothing.”

“From the barbarian point of view, the man was already dead. After all, had he been any sort of warrior, he never would have surrendered. He would have died on the battlefield.” Artus shrugged. “And his willingness to bargain, this unmanned him further. The man, I’m sure, thought he could pull the wool over Conan’s eyes. Not the first to make that mistake, and certainly not the last—though all of them tend to share the same fate.”

She glanced up toward the wheel deck but could not see Conan. “So, he is a man who kills, and that is all?”

“You know that is not true, woman. Conan is a man of great passions. Wine and women, plunder and adventure; these are passions of his. But he is fiercely loyal. You’ve saved his life. He shall never forget that, and never let harm come to you. Know that as well as you know the sun rises in the east.”

Tamara nodded. Conan was completely unlike the people she had known growing up. In the monastery, their training allowed them to channel their emotions into constructive things. While they did develop martial skills, they studied them to defend themselves and others. Conan’s passions flowed in the entirely opposite direction. Master Fassir was a creature or order, but Conan . . .

The instant she sought to contrast them, she immediately saw that which they shared. Master Fassir, too, had his passions. He loved the people of the monastery. In taking her in, he had proved his love for the people of the world. Master Fassir had dedicated his life to thwarting Khalar Zym in one way, and so Conan, in another, was devoting himself to the same task.

Tamara reached out and caught Artus’s forearm. “You are his friend, Artus. Tell me, his life, is it one that makes him happy?”

The Zingaran scratched at his chin. “He is one who may not have been born to ever be happy. Where others first taste mother’s milk, he had her blood. Born on a battlefield was he, and never quite so happy is he except when fighting.”