Conan the Barbarian Read Free Page B

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 honor. 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 gray woolen 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 practicing.”
    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 instill 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.
    “Conan, you will shape a scabbard for your blade. You will oil it and care for it. You will not put an edge on it until I give you leave to do so. Do you understand?”
    The boy nodded, then sighted down the length of the blade.
    “It is true and straight, my son.” Like your spirit.
    Conan looked up. “Father, I—”
    Corin held a hand up. “Do not thank me.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it is a terrible thing I have done here, my son.” I hope your mother will forgive me. “Know this. Because of this blade, you will be very angry with me—more times than either of us will care to remember.”
    “No, Father—”
    “Accept that is so, Conan. And this is the other terrible part: in giving you that sword, I will let the man you will become slay the child you have been.” Corin took the blade from his son. “A weapon like this is only good for killing men.”
    Conan smiled. “I shall destroy our enemies.”
    “So I hope, but you must remember, my son, that this sword cannot tell friend from enemy.” Corin flipped it around and offered the hilt to his son. “ And it can kill the man at either end of it. Sometimes both.”
    Conan accepted the sword, then returned it to its wrappings. “I shall make a scabbard. I will not sharpen it. And I will train only after my chores are done.”
    “Very good.”
    The boy looked up. “Will you train me?”
    The question caught Corin off guard. “When the time comes, Conan, the warriors—”
    “Father, I see them look to