Conan the Barbarian Read Free

Corin cried out his martial encouragements, as metal belled against metal and masked the screams of the dying. The Vanir fell back; when their horses, wild-eyed, wheeled and danced before the rude weapons of the defenders.
    As caution stayed the raiders, from the swelling ground, the mailed figure raised one gloved hand in a gesture of command. Dawn fire flashed from his iron helmet, which, concealing his features, lent him an aura of terrible power.
    “They’ll bring up their archers,” whispered Conan’s mother. “They’ll cut our menfolk down as they stand beyond the range of our Cimmerian steel.”
    “Crom help us!” murmured the boy.
    Conan’s mother gave him an icy glance. “Crom does not heed the prayers of men. He scarcely hears them. Crom is a god of frosts and stars and storms, not of humankind.”
    Soon were the words of Maeve, the blacksmith’s wife, proven true. A hail of arrows whistled through the dawn, to thud against the wooden huts, to glance from shields, and to sink, feather-deep, into naked flesh. Again and again the deathly rain of Vanir arrows swept the cluster of defenders, until the shield-wall sagged and crumbled.
    At last the gigantic figure upon the hillock spoke, his deep, unearthly voice tolling like an iron bell. “Loose the hounds!”
    Snarling and snapping, the red-tongued dogs panted down the slope, their flying forms silhouetted against the vermilion dawn. One Cimmerian fell, gurgling, with a hound at his throat. Another speared one beast in mid-leap. A third yelled hoarsely as wolf-sharp fangs closed on the muscles of his upper arm. And the wall of shields came apart, as men turned to strike with notched and blunted swords at the vicious animals.
    “Archers!” boomed the dark giant. “Let fly another round!”
    A hissing hail of death fell on the surviving few. Bodies writhed in the trampled snow, as their fellow villagers staggered back, their hide shields pierced by the flying shafts. For a moment Conan saw his father standing alone, his shield bristling with arrows. Then a shaft caught the blacksmith in the leg, piercing the muscle of his upper thigh. The injured limb gave way beneath him. With a choked curse, he fell and lay on his back in the frozen slush. One hand crawled across the ice, inching toward the hilt of the great steel sword. An arrow pinned his hand to the ground. Then the dogs were at him.
    It was soon over.

II
     
    The Wheel
     
    Now horsemen crested the rise and thundered down among the huts, their merciless swords cutting down all who resisted. Lighted torches wheeled through the icy air to thud upon the rush roofs of the defenceless houses and set them ablaze. Thus were flushed out into the open all who had taken refuge within their homes.
    Whooping riders pounded along the rutted lane, spearing the young, the old, and the wounded. Maeve impaled one leering fellow who bent from his galloping horse to seize her. She smiled thinly as his tom body toppled from the saddle to lie sprawling in the mud. A sweep of the Cimmerian woman’s sword hamstrung another animal. As the beast fell kicking, Conan sprang upon the rider, writhing in agony beneath his steed, and sliced open his throat.
    But the defenders were outnumbered. Their ranks thinned rapidly. Abruptly, their resistance ended. Dazed and dejected, all the survivors threw their weapons at the booted feet of their conquerors—all, that is, but Maeve, wife of Corin and mother of Conan. Eyes ablaze in a face drained of colour, she leaned on the pommel of her broadsword, stunned and struggling for breath, while her son stood beside her, his small knife held at the ready.
    At last the mounted giant on the knoll moved. As spurs struck its glossy black flanks, the quivering stallion sprang into motion. With a measured control more terrible to witness than the careless speed of fury, the commander of the marauders picked his way down the slope and along the ruts of trampled snow stained with the blood of the