Conan the Barbarian Read Free Page A

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 mold. 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