Michael Stackpole: Conan the Barbarian

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 HADbeen 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.”